


Anyplace, Anyhow, Anytime

by aimmyarrowshigh, colazitron



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (all of the alternate universes), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Animals, Alternate Universe - Curse Workers Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Grease, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Discussion Of Murder, M/M, THE CHARACTER DEATH IS TEMPORARY, Underage Drinking, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 90,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6519871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's going to audition for The X-Factor in a few days, he really can't use this persistent tickle in his throat. What's even worse is when the tickle turns into a full blown cough, and the cough makes him pass out only for Harry to wake up in a different world. And then another one, and another one, and another one. The only other person who seems to be as affected as he is, is a boy with blue eyes who keeps showing up in every single one of these worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Neither aimmyarrowshigh nor colazitron are in any way affilliated with the persons depicted in this story, or profiting off it in any monetary way. We do not claim any of the events in this fanfiction actually took place.
> 
>  **A/N:** This bigbang was originally aimmyarrowshigh's brain child/idea, and I'm very happy she decided she wanted to write it with me. Unfortunately, due to RL, she had to drop out halfway through the writing process. I hope I did her idea justice, and I hope I've managed to make the reading experience a fluid one. This fic was a labor of love from start to finish, and I hope you enjoy it!

Harry's had a tickle in his throat all day. He coughed into his shoulder so many times at Mandeville's that Barb and old Olive teased that he'd do his throat in before the big day on Friday.

"Probably just allergies," he'd assured them. "I had an asthma attack at my cousins' at the weekend. Flowers."

Barb held her warm, soft wrist to his forehead anyway and made him drink a hot lemon and honey. She still cuffed the back of his head when he'd asked for a tip of whiskey in it, though, so he figures he can't have seemed that ill.

Apart from a tickle in his throat, there’s also the ever-growing ball of leaden nerves that’s weighing down his stomach. Harry’s generally fine with performing; he never really got stage fright much, much to the envy of many of his friends and classmates. Put Harry in front of a crowd and he’ll feel right at home. But Friday isn’t about holding a presentation in English class or getting up on stage at some small party or other, so Harry thinks he should be forgiven for the nerves.

He also thinks he should be given that shot of whiskey, but Barb only gives him that fondly exasperated look and another cuff round the back of his head every time he mentions it.

"Go on, little Harry," she says at the end of the day, and pushes a brown paper sack with day-old cream buns into his hands. "Get some sleep and do us all proud. You'll be fantastic."

Harry smiles and swallows. The tickle has grown some teeth.

“Right. Thanks, Barb,” Harry forces out with a valiant attempt at a smile.

Barb pats his cheek and thankfully doesn’t tell him not to worry.

The air outside is chilly, and the fingers Harry has curled into the paper bag go icy cold all the quicker with just how tightly he’s clutching it. The tickle and its teeth aren’t as much appeased by the prospect of home as Harry hoped they would be, and Harry can’t quite bring himself to quicken his pace.

“Harry’s home!” Gemma yells as soon as he’s inside, hopping down the stairs just as he’s closing the door behind himself.

She snatches the brown paper bag from his icy fingers, and peers inside curiously.

“Ooh, cream buns. Cheers, H.”

Harry nods and coughs again. The teeth bite, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "'S'ere a kettle on?"

Gemma nods around a mouthful of vanilla creme pat and shakes some icing sugar from her fingers.

“You okay?” she asks, cream bun shoved into a cheek and a slight frown pulling at her brows. She’s started painting them recently, or something. They always look all neat and orderly now. Harry’s still getting used to her new face.

Harry clears his throat and nods again. "Maybe my voice is changing again."

"I don't think it _can_ get any deeper," Gemma says. "The judges won't be able to hear you. I think you'd be beyond the range of human ears."

Harry wrinkles his nose at her as he fills a mug, his favorite orange mug with the chip in the handle. The hot tea does a root canal on the little teeth in his throat and he winces.

“Want me to get you a throat lozenge? You know if mum finds out she’ll fuss.”

Harry sighs and weighs his options. Mum _has_ been going a bit overboard with her fussing ever since he made it through to the next round of auditions, sighing about how next thing she knows her baby girl will be off to uni, and her baby boy will be off to be a popstar in London, and she’ll be left all by herself with a cat. It’s usually then that Robin chuckles fondly and quips something along the lines of “What am I? Furniture?”.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Gemma kisses the top of his head and hums, _mmm, you smell like cream buns, too_ as she heads up the stairs to the medicine chest. Harry forces down another mouthful of tea and his eyes water as he glances across the kitchen to the calendar taped onto the refrigerator door. Friday, 9 July 2010, is highlighted in bright pink and circled three times.

 _MANCHESTER - H'S AUD. LEAVE 3AM_ in Mum's handwriting, stark and blue ink, stares at him.

He gulps more tea and it feels like the teeth snap, something catching the tea before it can get all the way down and he coughs it up, wet and hacking onto the kitchen table. He's still spluttering when Gemma, Mum on her heels, reappears.

"Just -- choked --" Harry waves his hands. "'M'fine. Sorry."

Mum, of course, rushes to his side and lays a hand on his back, focal point of warmth between his shoulder blades. It doesn’t soothe the teeth like he wishes it would.

“Are you alright, darling?”

“Yeah,” repeats, and coughs again. “Just got tea down the wrong way.”

Mum sighs and straightens up, passing her hand along the curve of his bent spine before straightening up. “Well, you made a right mess of the table.”

Harry catches Gemma’s eye and she rolls her eyes at him, a hint of a smile on her lips. While Mum turns to the kitchen counter for a wipe, Gemma passes him the throat lozenge.

It doesn't really help. He mops up the table and then nestles his head and arms right down onto it and dozes while Mum cooks dinner. Radio 1 is on the background and Harry can't avoid thinking, _that could be you next year_.

It’s a dizzying thought to have, feeding the ball of lead in his stomach and a lightweight dizziness in his head at the same time. It pulls his cheeks up into a wide grin, so he burrows his head further into his arms.

“You’ll do fine, darling,” Mum says, carding fingers through his hair for a bit. “Your singing is so lovely and you’ve seen the kind of people they let on telly. You’re far better than... what was her name last year?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “They let those people on telly for entertainment, mum. No one takes them seriously. It’s not them I have to be better than.”

Though he certainly hopes he will be.

Mum kisses the back of his head and replaces the mug of lukewarm tea with a steaming one. Dusty jumps silently onto the tabletop despite Anne's halfhearted shooing and curls onto Harry's head to bathe her paws and dip her hooked tongue into his tea.

“Oh, don’t let her do that,” Mum chastises, but she can’t be bothered to actually shoo Dusty off either and Harry figures it’s far too late. Dusty knows she can get away with drinking their tea most of the time. They weren’t nearly strict enough with her as a kitten, but Harry defies anyone to try. Sweetest eyes he’s ever seen in a kitten.

Harry doesn't have the energy to do much about it anyway. There's a rather stout cat sitting on his head and the ache in his throat has crawled down into his chest, tiptoeing its way into his lungs if he attempts a deep breath.

“Mandeville’s very busy today?” Mum asks, the smells wafting from the stove growing fuller and making Harry’s stomach tighten with something that’s not nerves; finally.

“Hm? Oh. Was alright. Just a bit tired, I think,” Harry says, sucking away at the last of the throat lozenge. It’s not helping much either.

He reaches blindly behind himself until he finds some furry cat part and bats until Dusty leaps away from the annoyance. He raises his head and coughs again, a deep rasp carving around the tops of his lungs. When he swallows after, the back of his tongue tastes like metal.

Mum turns away from the stove to frown at him worriedly.

“That didn’t sound like ‘just a bit tired’,” she says.

Harry swallows the taste of metal and the wince when the teeth in his throat snap at him again.

“D’you want me to fetch you a throat lozenge?”

“Already had one,” he mumbles.

There's another hand on his forehead, although Mum's is cool. Cold, even. Enough to make Harry's teeth chatter.

"You're burning up!" Mum tilts his head until she can get a look at his eyes. "How'd you get so peaky so quick? Go up to bed. I'll bring you a tray."

Harry nods weakly and goes to grab his rucksack from the door before trudging up into his room. he peels out of his jeans, but his fingers and toes are still icy, so he leaves the sweatshirt on and slips under his duvet, bunching it up around his middle. Staring at the white of his bedroom ceiling he chews on his lip.

This cannot be happening. He refuses to believe he’s caught some sort of fast acting super flu right now. _Right now_. The one time he really needs not to be ill.

He rolls over and pulls the blinds up with two fingers so that he can peer across the fields. The weather seems to have changed as rapidly as his health, the blue sky from earlier now gray-green and strange, the clouds moving in great gusts that shake the top of the tall grass. A few fat raindrops hit the windowpane.

At least everything’s adequately dramatic.

“Did you need to bring the whole bloody world down with you?” Gemma asks from the doorway, eyes fixed on where he’s peering out the window.

“Honestly, you’re such an attention hog,” she chides, coming over to perch on his bed.

Harry makes room for her automatically, letting her settle in against the headboard.

“You’ll catch it,” he croaks, teeth and barbed wire all the way through his throat and lungs.

“Nah. I’m your big sister. We’re immune to this sort of thing, didn’t you know?”

Harry would remind her of that time they’d both had the chicken pox, but he doesn’t really want to try and force words out any more than he has to.

Gemma pets his back through the duvet like he's an oversize Dusty. The raindrops outside have ceased their drumbeat on the windowpane and instead become a roar, a sheet of water dousing the little village. Somewhere far off, the sky rumbles.

“You’ll get better, H. You’ll be fine and dandy, and you’ll wow the judges, and then you’ll be a big time popstar and keep me in designer clothes and purses. We have a deal, remember?” Gemma murmurs.

Harry smiles and snuggles closer into the pillows, giving in to the heavy pull of his eyelids. He’ll just doze a bit until Mum’s up with the tray.

He yawns.

The air fights against him and he chokes again, sitting up and dislodging Gemma's hand to cough, and cough, and cough, and he's gagging and rasping and outside the rumbling gets closer.

"Mum!" Gemma yells at the doorway of Harry's little bedroom. "Mum, come quick!"

Harry doubles over, still hacking, and he can't get in any air. The wind shakes the window like it's trying to get inside for him. He gags again and covers his mouth and when he wrenches his eyes open, Gemma's face is white and his hands are covered in red.

"Harry -- it's okay -- "

Lightning strikes so close, everything goes fluorescent-blank and it feels like Harry's bones fizzle with it.

And then everything is dark.

*

Harry stumbles and barely catches himself, air suddenly clear, and his lungs suddenly free of barbed wire and teeth nipping at him when he gulps in a deep breath.

It smells of moss and earth, and the ground is covered in dried needles. There’s sunlight filtering through trees when he looks up, the softest rustle of the wind and a lone bird singing somewhere. Harry twirls about his own axis, stumbling over a root, suddenly back in shoes and clothes, though not shoes or clothes he’s ever seen before and he- he’s-

He’s stood smack dab in the middle of a forest.

“What the fuck,” he whispers into the stillness.

This is the weirdest dream Harry has ever had.

In front of him, the path he’s stood on forks, one fork leading left, the other one right. Both of them appear pleasant to walk and there’s no real difference between them that Harry can discern.

He turns left.

Two steps down the worn path, softened with decaying pine needles, his foot... doesn't stop. That's the only way that he can think of the falling feeling, his foot never stopped when it landed on the ground; he felt it, it wasn't a hole or an edge, but he doesn't feel like he's sinking, either. There isn't any resistance, and there's nothing sticky like mud to slow him down.

He just falls. Space whistles around his ears and there are flashes of light and sound like doors opening and closing too quickly to see.

And then he stops falling. He doesn't land. He just stops. His step finishes, like the forest never fell away around him.

But he isn't on a dirt path softened by pine needles.

He’s on a paved sidewalk. The first step back on solid ground disorients him and he bumps his shoulder into a girl leading a poodle on a long lead.

“Sorry,” he says, stumbling back towards the building and leaning against it.

She only graces him with the barest of looks and mumbles something under her breath that he can’t make out.

There’s a line of yellow cabs that make Harry think of American TV right in front of him and a set of stairs down to the underground to the side.

He’s not sure he’s got enough (or any?) money on him for a taxi and anyway, where would he ask to be taken? He doesn’t even know where he is!

He turns towards the stairs and the world falls away again.

 

This time he can't help reaching out towards a shard of blue light -- maybe it really is a door, maybe he can find a doorknob -- but it stings his fingertips like when he stuck a fork into the toaster that time to get at a bit of crust that was burning.

His foot hits the ground too hard, but it's only because he'd been expecting a stair and there is none. But the footing he does get isn't solid, either: it's rocking, gently, a rhythmic kind of grind and then something deeper, bigger.

The ocean.

Is he on the deck of a ship?

He looks down at his feet and they're in old-fashioned boots, the kind with fasteners and rough laces. His trackies have become thick, woolen trousers with pleats. They itch. The deck looks nice, though, a pale wood that shines. Probably not a pirate ship, then.

Cold wind kisses his neck and he shivers. He pulls the collar of a matching wool jacket up to his ears and looks up.

There's no land anywhere. Which makes sense, if he's on a ship -- but none of this makes any sense at all.

"Excuse me," Harry says to a man in a white uniform walking at a quick clip past. "Where are we headed?"

The man looks puzzled. "Still New York, sir. Unless you mean to get off at Queenstown."

Well. Harry shall have to do that, then. "How long until, er... port? There?"

It isn't long, although it's longer than Harry would like to be stowaway on a ship. And wearing a wool suit, no less. He can't help trying to scratch discreetly where it chafes at his bum as he sits on a deck chair and stares at the endless flat calm of the sea.

His stomach rumbles. Can stowaways eat? No matter. He'll eat in Queenstown, wherever that is. He can find a phone there, too, and ring Mum.

Probably. Unless this is heaven, but it doesn't feel like heaven. Wool isn't very heavenly.

He stands and paces across the deck and tries to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. He never did get to eat that dinner that Mum made. Well, he'll wake up soon and she'll fuss but she'll give him some food, too.

He leans against the railing and looks down at a lower deck, and he's startled: he may be in a wool suit, but at least his is clean and seems to have been pressed.

Wherever he is, it's somewhere that there's still a first class -- and a third class.

There are people crowded all around on the lower deck and most are wearing shades of black and brown and gray. Little children run on rougher wood than Harry's stood on. Most everyone is crowded around the railings, looking out to catch the wind on their faces and relieve seasickness.

There's a boy with pale brown hair standing right in the center of the deck, though, clutching the sides of his head and looking around wildly.

Maybe he's lost someone.

"Queenstown port coming, sir," says the white-uniformed man at Harry's shoulder. "If you plan to alight, please follow me."

Harry turns away from the boy and looks back at the helpful gentleman - probably more doing his job than helpful, then, since Harry appears neither a stowaway nor someone who can’t afford to eat, if the ‘sir’s are any indication - smiling at him as he makes to follow him.

“Thank you, yes,” he says.

He never makes it to port.

Two steps down the gangway he’s back to doors and lights rushing around him. He keeps his fingers to himself, this time, but he squints his eyes and tries to make something of the lights.

This time his feet themselves feel unfamiliar when they land. They're bigger, maybe, or else the rest of him is -- maybe both.

When he looks down, Harry is shocked by how far it is to the ground. He's never been short, really, but now he's rather tall and when he glances at his hands and arms, they're bigger. Stronger.

He's a grown man. That was fast. He touches his jaw and there's stubble there, just a little.  
"Mr. Styles?"

That must mean him. Harry blinks and looks up: he's in an office, a very posh office, the type that lawyers have on telly. A pretty woman with platinum blonde hair and black eyelashes stands in the doorway in a black jumper and skirt.

She's waiting for him to say something. "Er," Harry decides on.

The woman rolls her eyes and sighs like she thinks he’s being terribly unprofessional, but like she’s maybe a bit used to it. Harry’s not so sure whether he likes that. Can’t he dream himself competent. Really. Then she smiles at him like she’s fond of him, and steps inside what appears to be Harry’s office.

“Did you listen to a word I just said?” she asks, amusement curling around her words.

Harry tries his best charming and chagrined smile. If it works on Mrs. Henderson in math class, maybe it’ll work on this woman as well.

“Ms. Nelson was wondering if you’d had a chance to look at those reports yet? The ones she sent over Monday? And Ms. Williams called to cancel your lunch.”

"The reports," Harry repeats. "Er, from Monday?"

"Those there." His assistant -- he has an assistant! -- points to a stack of manila folders labeled URGENT in yellow cellotape. "The unopened ones." She shakes her head. "I'll try to put her off."

“Thank you,” Harry says, possibly with a bit too much feeling. “I’ll get right on them, I promise.”

Maybe he’ll look at them and miraculously know what to do.

More likely he’ll be whisked away in a whirl of space-time lights and doors any second now anyway.

“Yes, yes, I’m the apple of your eye, the love of your life, you’d be lost without me. Your charms are wasted on me, Styles, you know that,” the woman says, and with a friendly wink leaves him be.

The only sound in the office once she shuts the heavy oak door is the ticking of an overhead clock. Harry waits a moment and then scampers to the door to shove a chair under the knob.

Now: what the fuck is going on?

He hurries over to his desk and opens up the closed laptop, but it asks him for a password. The first five things that Harry can think of aren’t it, so he gives up and hopes he can muddle through somehow. There’s a letterhead on a notepad, but all it tells him is his own name, the company’s name (“Williams, Inc”, which really doesn’t tell him much), and his office email address and phone number.

Harry glances over his shoulder, but the only thing behind him is a stretching cityscape from entirely too high-up for his taste.

He cradles the telephone receiver to his shoulder and dials his own number.

"Williams Incorporated, Executive Sales Office. This is Lou Teasdale, how may I direct your call?"

Harry rings off, heart pounding.

Right. Executive Sales. So Harry’s... selling something. Maybe those unopened reports from Monday - whatever day it may be today - will tell him more.

Harry reaches for them and flips the cover open, flipping past the first few pages that contain only numbers and diagrams with labels that don’t mean anything to Harry.

"Spreadsheets," he whispers. Why would he invent a future for himself where he has to understand spreadsheets? Bloody boring dream.

Sighing, he slides his fingers between the pages to turn to the next one, but as he pulls his finger away, a sharp pain makes him flinch, and he watches with a sort of detached sort of fascination as a red drop beads on the pad of his finger.

A papercut.

That’s... is that supposed to happen in dreams? It really, really burns.

He sticks the tip of his finger in his mouth and tastes salt and copper.

If this is a dream, it's very realistic.

Harry looks around the office. There's a glass plate, the type that very dull awards are etched on, sitting on a shelf beside some books that are probably for show, because otherwise he really has grown into the most tedious adult of all time. _2031 London Sales Records_. _Hooper's Birdwatching Guide_.

Well, he does like birds.

Finger still between his lips, Harry crosses the office again and lifts the plate. It's heavy, and is indeed etched with "2025 Executive Banquet." The edges are polished smooth and it refracts light from the sunny window into a little rainbow across his desktop as he hefts it between both hands. Big, long-fingered, sturdy adult hands with very clean fingernails.

Harry smashes the glass on the corner of the desk.

Someone struggles with the chair Harry has pushed under the doorknob, but he mustn’t have done it very well, because Ms. Teasdale rushes in and stares at Harry and the glass shards surrounding the side of his desk.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

Harry’s still here. Why is he-?

“Here,” Ms. Teasdale says, suddenly standing beside him, and gently guides him to sit in his big, black leather office chair. How she seems more steady in her three inch stilettos than he does with his feet firmly on the ground, he’s not sure. “Sit for a moment. I’ll call someone to clean this up.”

She perches on the side of his desk that isn't covered in shards of glass and dials at his phone, speaking in a hushed tone. She has a nice voice -- the same sort of Northern accent as Harry, even though he's sure they're in London. Manchester isn't so shiny as the city outside of his window.

She rings off and comes to stand in front of Harry again. "Oh, Harry, you're bleeding." She lifts his hand. "Does it hurt?"

Harry glances at his hand, but there’s still only the papercut.

“Oh, that’s not... that’s just a papercut. I’ll be fine,” he says, trying to smile at her.

Ms. Teasdale sighs heavily and rests his hand, still held in hers, in her lap. Harry feels himself blush a little bit. Are they...?

“I know you’ve been under a lot of stress recently, but... it’ll pass. You’ll be fine,” she says.

Harry nods dumbly.

“Maybe you should just take off early today? Have a nice long weekend and come back Monday with a clear head.”

"What about the er, the Nelson reports?"

"Oh, bugger Ms. Nelson," Ms. Teasdale says. She squeezes his hand. "You know how she loves to whinge anyway."

Harry manages another weak smile.

Ms. Teasdale clucks at him like his mother sometimes does when he’s ill, and Harry’s suddenly taken back to coughing in the kitchen and his mother sending him upstairs. He could really go for a bit of the stew she’d been making now.

“D’you want me to call you a car?” Ms. Teasdale asks.

Oh, god. Adults can drive. Harry can't drive. Nor does he know where he lives. Apparently he lives somewhere. In London. As an adult.

He can get drunk tonight. He needs to be drunk.

"Yes, please," he says.

“Alright,” Ms. Teasdale says. “You just pack up then, and I’ll see you Monday.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. At least he got one thing right, in this imaginary life.

Ms. Teasdale slides off the desk and shuts the door softly behind herself. Harry hurries to pick the chair back up and set it back in front of the other side of the desk, where he found it, and then goes about finding his things.

There’s a coat hanging off a small rack behind the door and he finds a brown leather bag inside one of the lower desk drawers. There’s a wallet with a driver’s license made out to him, so he figures it’s his. There’s a mobile phone in there as well, and Harry really hopes he can figure out how to work it.

It’s then that he notices there isn’t a ring on his finger.

Harry’s face falls a little more at that. Not that he really wants to be married yet - or, well, wanted to be, back in 2011, but he could’ve at least dreamed himself up a family and a wife.

Or maybe... maybe that’s why Harry’s “been under a lot of stress”. A divorce?

Well. He’ll find out when he gets home. If he can figure out where home is.

Ms. Teasdale reappears and smooths the shoulders of his smart coat. "Finchy's waiting with the car. Try to get some sleep. You look like you need it."

“Yes, thank you,” Harry says again, and grabs his leather bag. He feels like it’s his first day of school, a bit, even if he’s dressed up like a boring old adult. “See you Monday.”

“Don’t you dare try and work from home,” Ms. Teasdale says.

Harry smiles at her over his shoulder and then surreptitiously follows a similarly dressed man towards where he hopes are elevators that will take him downstairs. Ms. Teasdale doesn’t call after him to ask what he’s doing, so Harry assumes he’s moving in the right direction at least.

The lift carries them downstairs and they both alight without speaking. Is Harry unpopular? Or is that guy just a dick? Maybe they work for different departments.

A smiley man opens the door of a really sharp black car when he sees Harry, so he doesn't need to guess who 'Finchy' is. "Afternoon, Mr. Styles."

"Er, thanks," Harry says.

"Need to stop off anywhere?"

"No, thank you," Harry says. He's an adult; he probably has booze at home. "Just home, please. It's been a bit of a day."

Finchy smiles sympathetically, so Harry assumes he knows more about Harry’s life than Harry does.

“Right away, sir,” Finchy says, closing the door behind Harry with a softly, but decisively. Or maybe car doors are just quieter now. The console up front certainly doesn’t look like anything Harry’s ever seen before. At least the seat belts haven’t changed much.

The engine is silent even after they've begun to wind through the London streets. Harry doesn't recognize much -- not that he would; he's only been to London once or twice. The clothes that young people passing make no sense to him at all except for school uniforms. At least he does recognize the Nando's rooster and McDonalds' golden arches. Some things haven't changed in the last twenty years or so.

If it's only been twenty years. That book was from 2031, but it could be an antique for all Harry knows.

The thought curls heavy in Harry’s gut and flushes him with a nervous heat, even though he’s not quite sure why. He’ll just... get drunk, go to bed, and wake up with a horrible flu in 2011.

There seems to be very little traffic, but Harry can’t work out if there’s genuinely less traffic in the future or if it’s just a lucky coincidence. Maybe there are laws restricting cars now. Protecting the environment and all that.

At least people aren't wearing gas masks or anything. It must still be safe to breathe in the city. Maybe animals and trees are doing better now.

The building where they finally stop is almost as high as the office park Harry's just left. He stares up at easily 50 floors of sandy brick and sparkling windows, and he startles when Finchy opens the door again.

“Sorry, Mr. Styles,” Finchy says.

Harry waves him off and climbs out of the car.

“I’ll come pick you up Monday morning as usual?” Finchy asks.

“Yes, please,” Harry says. He has no idea if he’ll still be here Monday but it’s probably better to be picked up if he is. As he still has no idea where he is or where he’s supposed to be going.

“Alright, then, sir. Bright and early on Monday.”

“Thank you. Have a nice weekend,” Harry says as he steps away from the car towards the building.

He checks his license before he gets to the door. Flat #237. Is that the second floor or the 23rd?

Harry supposes he’ll just try the 2nd floor first, but when he walks into the building, there’s a girl Harry’s age, well, his 2011 age, stood by the lifts.

“Going up, Mr. Styles?” she asks and at his nod pushes the button for him.

23\. Right. Harry lives on the 23rd floor. That’s... alright.

"Thanks," he says. He scratches the back of his head. She doesn't say anything else to him and she alights on the 14th floor, so he's spared having to ask who she is, or anything else.

When the doors slide open without a sound on the 23rd floor, Harry steps out of the cabin himself and starts rummaging in his bag for a set of keys. The doors are spread widely apart, so Harry assumes the flats are spacious. And expensive, probably.

He finds door seven, but he doesn’t find a set of keys. There is some sort of touch screen panel by the wall though, so Harry taps it with his finger. The screen comes on, informing him he’s stood in front of Styles, Harry’s flat. There’s an option for “ring bell” and one for “scan key”. Harry taps the latter, since he doubts anyone would answer if he rang the bell, but he still can’t find a key. Glancing down at the screen again, he halts for a moment, then carefully presses his finger to it.

A blue glow surrounds his fingertip for the barest moment, and then the door clicks softly. A knob has popped out of the flat panel of white-enameled metal. When he tries it, it turns in his hand.

Harry swallows, takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door.

Silence. He doesn't have children then, either. His heart sinks. Not even a dog?

Maybe he lost them all in the divorce he lost the ring on his finger to. Or maybe he really is a sad, lonely bastard, with a boring, stressful job and absolutely no personal life.

God, where does adult Harry keep his liquor?

He tugs off his tie and leaves it near the smart coat when he throws it over the back of a chair. That flat must have cost millions of pounds. So whatever Harry does now, he's good at it -- normally, anyway. There's a cat bed near the entrance to the kitchen, so at least he isn't completely alone.

"Cat?" he calls softly. His eyes are prickling with tears in spite of himself. Why is he here? "Cat?"

Harry stands still in the airly, light, _empty_ corridor for a full minute, he’s sure of it, but then there’s the soft pitter-patter of cat feet on old wood parquet floors.

The cat rubs up against Harry’s legs and purrs. Harry swallows heavily to keep the tears at bay.

“Hi, cat,” he says and leans down to pet the silky fur. “I don’t know your name, sorry.”

She -- Harry thinks she seems like a she -- meows at him anyway, her little tongue curling out on a massive yawn. She purrs when he rubs his too-big man-hands down her sides and strokes his thumbs over her fuzzy jowls. She's a lovely cat, with big yellow eyes. At least cats are the same in the future.

“Do you happen to know where I keep my booze, pretty one?” Harry asks, fingers warmed by her small body. She yawns again and trots off, and although Harry’s relatively certain she won’t be leading him to his liquor cabinet - adult Harry seems like the type to have one - it’s not like Harry has anything better to do and he needs to start looking somewhere, so he follows her.

She pauses in the corridor and stretches into a long comma, her tail swishing daintily as she presents him with her cat bum, and Harry is able to hide his tears into a little laugh.

Turns out she’s not leading him to his booze cabinet, but his bedroom, where she jumps up onto the bed that’s quite a bit higher up from the ground than Harry’s used to, and curls up in a little indent right in the middle of it. Harry assumes she’s been dozing before he came home.

"Cheeky," he says, because there _was_ a cat bed.

The closet is full of sharp, expensive business clothes and a fair amount of exercise wear that looks very futuristic indeed. Apparently adult Harry wears spandex. Harry eschews that and chooses a plain t-shirt and pants instead, for comfort. Apparently no one will be seeing him and expecting much.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pets Cat. Should he snoop a bit? It's not really snooping if it's his things, but he feels itchy about it. Maybe he'll just look through a few drawers. At least he can find out Cat's name or what the content of those Nelson reports meant.

Cat’s name is helpfully painted onto her bowls and turns out to be Minerva. Harry can’t help but wonder if that’s his own sense of humour, or if someone has named the cat for him.

There are a number of kitchen appliances that Harry can’t place no matter how hard he tries (not to mention that it took him five minutes of pressing his fingers to random surfaces until he worked out how to open them), but the produce in the fridge looks pretty much how Harry would expect. Lettuce, just like cats, doesn’t seem to have changed much.

The door of the refrigerator is woefully empty, completely unlike Mum's at home. No schedule to tell him whether he has friends, no artwork or greeting cards to tell him what's happened to his family.

His family. Mum and Gemma, Robin and Dusty. Harry's eyes well again and he scrubs at them with rough hands as he wanders back into the living room.

There’s a sofa and coffee table set in a muted charcoal grey that blends into the clinical mostly-white of the other rooms in a most depressing kind of way. Harry can’t believe he would’ve chosen any of the decor. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it all came furnished that way. Or maybe future Harry is this kind of person. Maybe Harry’s having a prophetic warning dream not to screw up his audition lest he end up this person.

There's another bookshelf of books that look nearly as boring as the ones in his office, but it also is nested with neat drawers, so he pulls one open.

Score: not booze, but a few picture frames turned upside-down so that their contents are hidden in the dark. Harry takes one out and studies the image inside.

It's him, that's for sure. He doesn't know the other man in it.

They look... well, they look like a unit. Not necessarily intimate, they’re not lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes or anything like that. It’s not a wedding photo, they’re dressed too casually for that, though they are both wearing smart jumpers and close-cut jeans. They’re talking to each other, it seems. And they’re smiling. They could just be close friends, but Harry suspects the photo wouldn’t be face down in a depressingly empty flat if they were just that.

Plus, the other man is... handsome.

But he also isn't here. There's something familiar in the glass-cut sharpness of his features, those cheekbones, but Harry doesn't know him. He takes the photo out of its frame, but there isn't anything written on the back. He supposes that the real adult Harry wouldn't have needed to label it to know their names.

Harry looks at the man’s brown eyes for a moment and wonders if he’s going to meet them in person. Maybe... maybe it’s more tragic than a divorce. Maybe Harry’s a _widower_.

It’s a sobering and equally depressing thought and Harry places the photo back in its frame, and the frame back in the drawer - face down.

There's a nudge at the back of his calf and a plaintive _mraow_ that Harry knows, from Dusty, means _feed me!_.

Cat food. Right. That has to be somewhere in the kitchen, Harry supposes, so he closes the drawer and makes his way back to the kitchen, Minerva meowing and brushing up against his ankles in a way that might just be enough to trip him up and kill him.

“If you want to be fed, you need to let me live,” Harry says with a chuckle.

She looks unimpressed and headbutts him again. It's nice to have anyone close.

He finds wet and dry food beneath the sink and puts a little of each in her dish, and some water alongside. There's a bottle of vodka in the freezer, nearly full, and he takes that, too.

Harry grabs it and debates not looking for a glass. Drinking from a nearly full bottle of vodka seems a little dramatic though, so Harry goes through more cabinets until he finds water glasses. Probably adult-Harry has vodka appropriate glassware somewhere, but this’ll do for Harry.

While he’s at it, he grabs a package of digestive biscuits from the pantry. Not an ideal dinner maybe, but Harry’s feeling a bit hungry, so it’ll have to do.

He rubs his ankle over Minerva's side since his hands are full, but she doesn't spare him a glance, her face in her dish. She'll find him if she wants him.

Harry retreats to the bedroom and climbs onto the fluffy white duvet, settling back cross-legged against the headboard, vodka and glass in one hand, digestives in the other. Being able to drink without anyone around to stop him doesn’t seem quite as appealing as he thought it would, right at that moment.

He doesn't think he likes living alone. How did he end up here? It seems like even if he could afford not to, he'd rather just bunk with a friend.

Well, if this is supposed to be a warning of some sort then Harry got the message loud and clear. So now he’s going to have a drink or two, eat his biscuits, go to sleep, and wake up in his own bed. He’ll never complain about Gemma taking up all the space in the living room with her A-levels and uni stuff again. Well... at least not for a few weeks.

And he'll be extra-polite to everyone at his auditions, if he hasn't missed them. Maybe he did something on telly that was so disgusting and terrible that literally no one in the whole of England except Ms. Teasdale likes him anymore.

Probably the man in the photograph wouldn’t have been in the photograph in the first place if that were the case, but Harry can’t explain the complete absence of any kind of visual representation of a social life any other way. He’s always liked collecting photos and mementos of time spent with his friends. Even if he has no kids - does Gemma not have any either? Are they not talking anymore? Whatever possibility Harry’s head comes up with, they all seem bleak.

He twists off the top of the vodka and decides to forego the glass after all. You can't get hungover in a dream.

Or whatever this is. Scrooge hadn't got hungover with the Ghost of Christmas Past.

It burns just as much going down as it does when Harry’s awake, and being alone in this ridiculous bedroom, he grimaces at the heat of it. Ugh. Probably he should go looking for something to mix it with, but he somehow doubts adult Harry keeps vodka mixers stocked, and he doesn’t want to leave the bed anyway.

Instead he takes another swig and then tears open the packet of digestives.

By the time he falls asleep, the bottle is half empty and there are only crumbs left in the packet of biscuits, but there's a warm cat in his lap. He just manages to set the bottle down on the nightstand before his eyes fall shut and sleep pulls him into the dark.

When Harry wakes up, the cat is gone from his lap but he’s... he’s still in the same bed. The same duvet, the same floor length windows with the dizzyingly high-up view of the city, the same sparse furnishing.

A pounding new headache.

Harry presses his eyes closed again and rolls over to hide his face in the pillow.

Why is he still here? Where is he? When is he? How did he get here? Why hasn't Mum called? Even if he's an adult, doesn't she still love him? Isn't she worried that he's gone? If Harry’s “been under so much stress lately” like Ms. Teasdale said, shouldn’t someone - _anyone_ be seeing how he is?

He rubs at his eyes and the tears stinging in them, wiping his hand on the duvet when it comes away a bit damp.

Right. This is getting freaky. Really, really freaky.

If Harry’s supposed to be an adult here then he’ll just have to... behave like an adult. Get up, get washed and dressed and find something to eat. If there’s still McDonald’s and Nando’s, there’s got to be a Starbucks somewhere, right? Right.

Unless coffee's gone extinct. He doesn't even like the stuff, but the pounding in his head finds that a very dreary proposition.

He’ll just... be optimistic. Optimistic that there is coffee, he will find it, and he will work out how to pay for it.

But first - bathroom.

The first piss of a morning is always a special kind of relief, Harry finds, even if the toilet flushes automatically and scares your vodka soaked brain half to death.

Minerva is also woken by the toilet, if her grumpy morning face is any indication, but she cheers when Harry rubs her head and pours her a bit of milk from the refrigerator.

He pours himself a glass as well, nostalgic suddenly for breakfasts where he’d have cocoa, and then goes to get changed into clothes that are more than just pants and a t-shirt.

There isn’t much to be found in the closet that isn’t suits and work appropriate jumpers, but Harry manages to find a pair of jeans, at least. They are very, very tight. Is this how men wear their jeans in the future? They're more like leggings or tights than the jeans he knows from 2010.

Well. He’ll just... have to go with it. Even if there are a few awkward _adjustments_ to make and even after five minutes of moving his dick around Harry doesn’t really feel comfortable. He doesn’t feel entirely touching his adult-dick either, though, so he leaves it be and digs through the closet to find something to wear with the jeans.

The closest thing he can find to comfortable clothing is a pale blue business shirt that seems less starchy than the rest. At least he doesn't have to button it all the way to his neck.

He doesn’t even go looking for shoes other than the ones he’d worn at the office the day before and just grabs his wallet and what he supposes is his mobile phone from his office bag, before shrugging on the coat. Minerva’s trailing behind him, so he leans down to scritch behind her ear and then shoos her off.

At least someone in this world still loves him, even if it is just for his opposable thumbs and ability to open tin cans.

The lift down is fast and turns Harry’s stomach into a queasy knot. He balls his hands to fist and breathes very deliberately, as he steps out into the lobby.

"Look, I'm just supposed to leave this box here," says a brash, nasal voice. "It's not like this guy's the Queen, so just tell me where I can find him."

“Queen?” Harry hears a girl ask and looks up to see the girl from last night arguing with a man about Harry’s age. Adult-Harry’s age, that is.

"Of England," the deliveryman drawls. It's a very droll drawl. Even Harry feels put in his place and he's not even the recipient. The deliveryman takes off his cap and runs a hand through his pale-brown hair. He has a thin beard over his jaw and cheeks and Harry can see blue eyes even across the lobby. "Can you _please_ tell me where I can find Harry Styles so I can leave him his bloody box?"

Instead of doing what a rational person would do and speak up, Harry takes two steps to the side and hides behind a pillar. He’s not... he’s not _really_ Harry Styles is he? Here?

But it seems he needn’t have worried, since there’s a bit of silence and then the man sighs and Harry can hear him say, “Nevermind. You pass the box along then, see if I care.”

He jams the cap back on his head and turns away from the girl on the desk, who takes the box but doesn't -- as Harry might, if he's honest -- seem all that curious about what's inside.

The deliveryman gets three steps towards the door before gravity shifts again.

When Harry’s feet touch the ground again, something feels off. He can’t exactly pinpoint it, but he feels unbalanced, and takes a few stumbling steps that somehow make him lose his balance even more, arms waving around, trying to find somewhere to hold on to. There’s only low shrubbery around him though, and Harry barely has time to realise he’s tripped over _all four of his legs_ , trying to push himself upright from the soft moss underfoot with his arms - what the hell is going on?! - before he hears someone yell, “what the fuck?!” and the pull is back again.

He falls on his face this time. He supposes that's what happens when your weight's shifted from four legs back to two without any warning.

Four fucking legs. Right. That definitely happened. Well, in the frame of any of this actually happening, at least.

He lets himself stay on the floor for a minute. Just in case.

Nothing immediately happens though, and the ground beneath him is actually quite cold and wet, so Harry pushes back up onto this feet and takes stock of himself and his surroundings.

Two legs, two arms. Hair, chin, nose, ears. ... cock. He feels a bit like the Doctor after a regeneration, checking to make sure everything’s still there.

There's a rumble like thunder, but when Harry looks up -- it's not. It's a crowd, thousands or tens of thousands of people packed into bleachers and stands he can hardly see beyond the shine of bright lights, all murmuring in schadenfreude and concern over his fall.

He’s still on shaky legs, and looking around and then at his feet it’s becoming clear that it’s because he’s on skates. He hasn’t been on skates in ages.

The music cuts off, which makes Harry realise there was music playing just before.

Fuck. What did he just mess up? And what does he do now?

His round eyes take everything in, flat ice -- huge, white, gleaming, laden with the logos of corporate sponsors -- and cameras with black lenses pointed to him and old men with gray hair and headsets milling around behind a dark blue barrier.

One of them, not quite as old as the others, smiles encouragingly at Harry and claps his hands. He nods. Whoever he is, whatever this is, it gives this-Harry's body permission to relax and let the panic subside.

Overhead, there's a muffled chatter of voices over the PA system. And then music starts.

Harry feels his head quiet and his body move into a position he wasn’t aware he knew. His feet move over the ice with more certainty and grace than Harry has ever managed in his life, but this-Harry must be really good at it. He wouldn’t be here if he weren’t, wherever here is.

So Harry takes a breath and allows the movement to overtake him.

The thing is, Harry's never been particularly graceful. Not even graceful, he's never been particularly coordinated. Not in his life.

But this-Harry -- this life -- Harry thinks that _this_ Harry must be very coordinated. And graceful, if the way the ice whispers to him beneath his blades and the cold air of the rink ruffles through his hair is any indication.

The music tells him when to jump and when to twirl, and the ice tells him how to land and where to put his weight. There’s still an undercurrent of nerves nagging at the back of Harry’s mind that Harry thinks are his, not this-Harry’s, but he moves through the choreography embedded in his muscles anyway.

Harry played footie as a little kid, but his body's never been much on his mind. He's charming and he has a nice face and he's naturally fairly thin, thin enough at least, that he hasn't ever been bullied for his looks or anything, so he hasn't put a lot of time into making his body _do_ things. Sport just isn't his strong suit.

Maybe it should be. The way that his thigh muscles stretch and tense and his abs know when to release their tight clench to allow a deep breath as he lowers into a sit-spin... it's satisfying. To know that he's strong enough to keep his balance, hold his place, get up again.

Harry concentrates only on the wind rushing through his hair and over his skin, the ice he’s gliding over so effortlessly, the faces of the crowd a blur from how fast he’s moving. It’s only sometimes, when he turns, or in the split moment he lands from a jump, that he can make out some of the features in the first rows, or of who he assumes are his competitors.

One of them is stood right at the very edge of the rink, brown hair and eyes icy blue.

It’s the boy from the boat. Harry is sure of it. And he’s staring _right at_ Harry.

He can't hear anything beyond the pulse of the music and the rushing of the air in his ears and the steady but rushed beat of his heart.

But it's unmistakable when the boy's mouth forms the words _HARRY STYLES!_ just as Harry's powerful legs lift him off the ice, up, up, spinning into a triple salchow --

_Who is that? Why is he here? What does he want? How is he following me?_

There’s a sharp pain in Harry’s ankle, followed by less sharp pain on his hands and elbows when he falls for the second time. His body slides over the ice helplessly, inertia not yet done with him and all Harry can do is whirl around and find the boy again. He moved back a step and his hand is up in front of his mouth, eyes wide, like he’s not sure what just happened either.

When he comes to a stop, Harry tries to move his ankle, and winces harshly. He’s not getting up.

There's that rumble again from the crowd, louder this time, blended through with the crackle of the PA announcers speaking in the same worried tones.

The same man that applauded Harry before suddenly pushes the boy out of the way, calling something to Harry that he can’t hear over the noise. He can read his face though, and he can guess - so he shakes his head. The man grimaces in concern and then waves two paramedics onto the ice.

Harry's elbow is lifted into a sling and then he's carried off the ice and through the thrum of competitors, coaches, and commentators. They haven't even unlaced his skates yet.

Harry can’t twist around on the stretcher so much, and he loses sight of the boy from before. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s seen him twice now. Or was he... was he the deliveryman Harry was hiding from? Could that have been him, only older, the way Harry had been older? Harry can’t be sure, he didn’t see the man’s face that clearly, but the thought weighs heavy in his stomach.

How is he here? If that's him, is he -- is he following Harry? Has Harry invented his own stalker?

“Are you okay, Styles? That was a nasty fall,” the man from before says, appearing next to the stretcher. He doesn’t wait for Harry to answer, but turns to one of the paramedics and repeats the question.

“Will he be alright?”

“A doctor’ll have to look at him, sir.”

"Wait," Harry says, and reaches out his good arm to catch hold of the nearest passing sleeve. "Wait, there's a -- I have to talk to -- "

“‘s alright, Styles. There’ll be enough time for everything afterwards, but we really need to get that ankle looked at,” one of the paramedics says, grinning down at him.

"No, but, I've seen -- "

"Harry, stop," says the man who must be his coach. "If you want to get back next year, you'll need an assessment now."

Harry feels his veins turn to ice. If this isn’t-- if this is-- If there is a Harry that’s always this-Harry, then Harry can’t take this from him.

He nods meekly.

Next _year_. What if he's still here, nursing a broken ankle and needing to learn to ice skate for real?

What if it takes a whole year of training here to find that boy again? What if he can't even get back here to ask him what's going on?

“There’s a lad,” his coach says, and the paramedics carry him through endless white corridors with fluorescent lighting breaking up the greying ceiling in even strides.

Before they make it far down the corridor, the fluorescent lights blend together and Harry is shooting through that tunnel again, assaulted on all sides by light and sound and now, for the first time, gasps of scent: mud here, blood there, a mouthwatering roast dinner somewhere far-off.

Before he can try and reach out for something again, or even try to figure out whether his ankle still hurts, he’s hurled onto solid ground again, trying to catch his breath, and _not_ immediately fall over. Thankfully, this time the floor under his feet is a squeaky sort of linoleum, and he’s wearing fancy black shoes without any blades attached to the soles.

“Christ, H. Don’t make them regret sending you before you’re even out the door,” a girl says next to him, grabbing his arm with a surprising amount of strength and steadying him.

"Er," Harry stammers. She has the sharpest gaze he's ever seen. "Sorry. Erm, sending me where, again?"

The girl -- a woman, really, taller than he is and dressed in all-black, her blonde hair slicked into a bun almost as severe as the lines of her black eyeliner -- stares at him.

“You’d think after the last six years I’d know when you’re joking, but I don’t,” she says. Her blood red lips curl in something half amused, half sneer. She looks like she could easily draw _his_ blood. Harry very consciously doesn’t flinch back from her.

“Er,” he says again, but is saved from having to come up with a more eloquent answer by her slapping a manila folder into his chest.

“At least remember this face so you’ll know when to run away.”

Harry has a hunch who'll be looking back at him when he opens the folder, so he doesn't. He'll save it for later, when they get... wherever they're going, so he can read about who the mystery man is without this woman judging him.

She sighs and pushes the button to call the elevators.

“Go collect your equipment downstairs; they’ll have everything you need. I’ll meet you on the helipad in 30. Got it?”

Harry nods and the elevator doors swing open. Fast, that one. Or just lucky, maybe.

“Equipment, then helipad in 30. Got it,” he repeats for good measure. He’ll figure out how far ‘downstairs’ he has to go once he’s in the elevator. And the helipad has to be on the roof, obviously. He’s got this.

Her severe look softens just a little bit, and she pushes him into the elevator cabin.

“Don’t waste your charm on me, Styles, you’ll need it later.”

Harry nods. Once the doors are shut, he'll be whisked into another world, won't he? It's worked that way so far, whatever this is.

Mostly it has. His heart hurts a bit as he thinks back to the world where Harry, where _he_ , grew up into someone lonely and alone and sad.

The lift doesn't spit him out into the lights. The doors simply open to a locker room. Or maybe an armory. There are dozens of people milling about and most of them are carrying at least one gun. A woman even taller than his -- professor? Handler? The word 'handler' catches onto something in his brain, so he keeps it -- has a bazooka slung over one slim shoulder like it's just a baguette.

It’s not that Harry’s not used to women who can hold their own - Gemma’s basically an unstoppable force herself, and though Mum’s generally sweet and easygoing, Harry wouldn’t want to end up on her bad side - but this is a little overwhelming anyway. There are men and women in spandex up and down all the rows of lockers, and all of them look like they could take Harry apart without breaking a sweat.

One or two give him an odd look, probably for lingering, but then another girl looks up - a blonde as well, though her eyebrows are thick and dark - and she drops the purse she’d been stuffing full of weapons like some sort of vengeful Mary Poppins, and bounds over to him.

“Harry! I heard they’re sending you out on the MI6 thing?”

_MI6. Harry's going to get this-Harry killed!_

"Er," he says. "Yep. Are you coming?"

She sighs wistfully and pouts at him. “I wish. You know I’ve got another year before they’ll let me go out by myself. Are you here for your stuff? I’ll walk with you, you can tell me all the classified details.”

She slings her arm through his and starts walking them down the lockers, and Harry lets her, glad he won’t have to figure out where to go himself.

“Er, well, those are... classified.”

She has a good laugh, whoever she is. When Harry chances a discreet glance downward from her face -- she _is_ still swinging nunchucks from one hand, after all -- she's got a name badge on her chest, but all it says is C. Delevingne.

Harry can't pronounce that. And 'C' could stand for anything.

“Just moving up in the world and already forgetting all about us little people, eh?” she teases, absentmindedly playing with the nunchucks, while she grins at him.

“Never,” he assures her. He gets the feeling if Harry doesn’t kill this-Harry off he’d appreciate staying on good terms with C. Dele...vingne.

“Sweet talker,” she says.

Harry smiles, and then someone decidedly less friendly-looking than C. takes his arm and whisks him into the _actual_ armory.

“You’re late, Styles,” she says. She wears black like everyone, but there are red patches on her shoulders and her hair is brushed out of her face in a low ponytail just as severe as his handler’s bun was.

“Sorry, Miss,” Harry says automatically, like he’s back in school and just stumbled into history class.

" _Miss_?" Her eyes narrow and that's when Harry notices the badge on her chest is lined in honor stripes and reads _GENERAL_.

"Er -- General! I'm so sorry. Just, er, nervous, I guess."

“Nervous’ll get you killed with rookie mistakes like that,” she says and then stops abruptly, shoving a bag into his chest so harshly he stumbles a little.

“This mission is standard entry level stuff, so pull yourself together.”

"Uh-huh." Harry clears his throat. "I mean, yes, ma'am. I er, go wheels-up in thirty," he improvises. He's seen people say that on telly. "Is this everything I'll need?"

She looks at him like she thinks he’s a little bit weird but maybe not entirely unexpectedly so. Maybe this-Harry isn’t all suave weapon-wielding super spy or whatever it is Harry’s doing here either.

“As long as you manage to follow Captain Swift’s orders this’ll be more than you need.”

Harry clears his throat again. This voice feels strange: he's American, and it isn't like he's putting the accent on, but it buzzes funny behind his teeth whenever he speaks.

“Thank you,” he says, for lack of anything better to stay.

The General studies him for a second and then sighs, some of the tension leaving her face, her expression shifting from terrifying to vaguely threatening.

“Go do us proud, Cadet.”

He hopes so. The doors swish open on their own as Harry exits and makes his way along a corridor lit in red and blue. It reminds him of something like a cross between a nightclub and a television crime scene, when they use the ultraviolet lights to find splashes of blood.

 _Don't think about blood_.

Oh god, he’s thinking about blood. His blood, specifically. Splattered all over walls lit only by ultraviolet like a particularly nasty Jackson Pollock. How did this-Harry’s mum ever let him sign up for this?

Oh, no. Maybe this-Harry has a tragic backstory! Spies in films always have tragic backstories. Harry hopes that he doesn't. This-him doesn't. It's all very confusing.

In the lift again, he presses the button for the rooftop. When the chrome doors open and he steps out, he's high above the rest of Washington DC, wind whipping fiercely against his curly hair.

Harry’s glad he’s far enough away from the edge of the rooftop that his knees don’t quake with how high up they are, because from here, far enough back that he doesn’t have to worry about falling, the view is breathtaking. He’s never been to the US before, but he recognises the landmarks, of course. From the news and from films, even more.

There's that really spiky one over the reflecting pool. With his luck, he'll fall out of the helicopter and be speared right on top with his duffel bag full of weapons still in his hand.

He’ll make the headlines. Or, well, maybe he won’t. Maybe he works for the kind of people who could even hush that up.

Maybe no one would come to his funeral because of his tragic backstory.

Maybe there won’t even be a funeral.

C. Delevingne seemed like she’d be sad if he died. A little. Maybe.

He hopes she doesn't have a tragic backstory, either; she seemed nice.

"You coming, Probie?" It's the severe blonde from before. He understands now why her hair is in such a tight bun; this wind is terrible. There's an elastic around his own wrist, too -- maybe this-Harry wears a bun when he's going to ride in helicopters.

It seems a smart idea anyway, so Harry quickly reaches up and wrestles his hair to the back of his head, snapping the hair tie around it twice for good measure. It’s not like he’s ever done this before, after all, but it doesn’t have to be a work of art, does it. It just has to hold.

“Yes, Captain,” he says, slinging his bag into the helicopter and himself right after it. Might as well.

She pats his back as he settles into the jump-seat beside her, before he can lean back and strap in. "You ready?"

“No,” he says, in a moment of what might be honesty or might just be bloody terror. What are the chances of them letting him out of this? Slim to none, he’s guessing.

To his surprise, the blonde laughs at him.

“You’re ready,” she says. “I wouldn’t have recommended you for this if I didn’t think you were.”

"You might if you wanted to kill me and make it look like an accident!" Harry squeaks. He can't help it. This is just too... Bourne Identity. It's not _real_. No one lives like this, do they?

“Darling, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” she says matter-of-factly, though she still seems amused. Harry’s not sure what to make of the fact that she seems more easy going up here in a helicopter taking off, having to speak through microphones and headphones, the wind whipping around their faces.

Harry can't find the words to answer. He really can't -- there's too much icy air in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and threatening to stir up his guts in a way that would be very embarrassing. So instead he swallows down the nausea and squeezes his eyes shut. He clutches onto the straps that hold him inside the 'copter, grateful that at least they're there to protect him from being dumped out a mile high over the White House.

He hears the blonde laugh again, right inside his ears, almost like she’s sitting in his head and laughing at him, but then he must make quite the picture. this-Harry probably wouldn’t be so afraid, but Harry-Harry can’t help himself. He’s in a helicopter jumpseat, with a large bag of weapons, about to do something involving MI6 - everything points towards Harry-is-going-to-get-himself-killed. How could he not be terrified?

He just wants to be home. Home with Mum, and Dusty, and Gemma, and Robin. Home with only his audition to worry about.

"Did you look at the file yet?"

Harry shakes his head and squints one eye open just enough to confirm his suspicions with a glance at the files inside the manila envelope.

It's him. The delivery boy, the man who jumped up when Harry fell.

“It’s a simple mission. Get in, grab the target, get out.”

Harry nods. Grab the target? Harry’s supposed to abduct a man who seems to be following him through different dream-lives and _jumped for joy_ when Harry fell and hurt his ankle? What sort of nightmare is he stuck in?

"Who, um -- like. Are we enemies?"

"Oh, you're still so cute," Blonde says. "Don't ever change, Styles."

That’s not--- that really doesn’t answer Harry’s question, so he peeks down at the files again, trying to put together words and meanings.

“Listen, Styles. It’s a simple mission, but it’s essential. We need those files back. You do what I say to, when I say to, and we’ll be fine. Just like training. Understood?”

Harry nods. “Understood.”

"And yes," she says. "He's an enemy. Or at least, he's not a good guy. I know he looks friendly and handsome as hell, but darling, he's a nightmare and don't you forget it."

Nightmare. Right. Well, if tough blondes with military rank say that, who’s Harry to doubt it?

Harry nods again.

“Now relax and enjoy the flight. It’s all work and no play after this.”

Harry's leg won't stop jittering as they fly on. His eyes are still shut because he really doesn't want to throw up, but knowing that whoever's been following him around the universe -- more than universe? -- is _evil_ doesn't help.

Neither does the creeping thought that even though he keeps waking up from his dreams he’s never really _waking up_ , is he? There’s no Gemma by his side, no mum rushing up the stairs. God, he was coughing blood, wasn’t he? Before this? Back home?

Harry tightens his jaw and holds his breath against the tears threatening to spill over. At least he could try to blame them on the wind.

This doesn't seem like heaven. But it hasn't been bad enough yet to be _hell _, either, although none of it's been great, exactly. It's not like he's fallen into a universe made of cake or where he's a world-famous rockstar or owns a thousand cats that don't smell like used litterboxes.__

__Maybe that's what the evil, handsome guy does. Maybe once he catches you, you go to hell._ _

__It makes as much sense as anything else that's happened since he last saw home._ _

__Well. He’s not going to catch Harry then. At least in this universe he’s got an entire organisation of badasses armed to their teeth, and some of them even seem to like him._ _

__The helicopter's forward motion jerks to a stop, and when Harry chances opening an eye, they're just hovering._ _

__Hovering over a skylight._ _

__Hovering over a skylight in a very fancy building. He can see red lasers through the glass from here._ _

__“Hook in, go down. I’ll be in your ear to guide you the rest of the way,” the blonde - who Harry should really call by her name, even if all he knows is her last name - says, taking off Harry’s headphones and fitting him with an earpiece._ _

__“We’ll shut off the alarms once you’ve opened that ceiling. You have a fifteen second window until the backup generator kicks in, so I suggest you don’t dawdle on the drop.”_ _

__Harry swallows again. "Okay. I mean, yes, ma'am."_ _

__His hands move on autopilot, the way his feet had when he glided out onto the ice._ _

__There’s a thick wire that he clasps to a loop bolted to the helicopter before he switches the straps keeping him secure for a harness attached to said wire. The bag goes on his back, strapped close so he can move without it bothering him. Harry checks all the clasps and buckles for faults, finds none, and re-does his hair._ _

__He can tell it sits more tightly now._ _

__Captain Swift pats his cheek. She's wearing black leather gloves, but they're smooth as skin. "Go get 'im, Tiger."_ _

__He grins at her, half his own relief, and half this-Harry’s excitement, before launching himself out of the helicopter with just as much power and grace as the Harry On Ice had done. If he ever makes it back, maybe Harry should try and invest time in some sort of exercise._ _

__He doesn't smack into the glass of the skylight, either. He jerks to a stop just above it and he riffles through the black bag for a thin tool that looks almost like a toothbrush, if toothbrushes had straightrazors instead of bristles at the fat end._ _

__He draws a careful circle with it on the glass, the back of his mind in control of his hands while the Harry-part sings the "Mission: Impossible" theme. The glass shrieks against the diamond-tipped blade, a terrible sound that he's glad he can hardly hear over the wind still whipping. Off to the side of the rooftop, an American flag catches over and over on its pole with a clanging sound._ _

__This is... this is happening. Harry is breaking and entering. And stealing something back. And someone is trying to kill him. There’s a blonde Captain in his ear telling him to “go easy, Styles, rushing brings mistakes”, and Harry’s veins are flooded with so much adrenaline he could throw a pool party in it._ _

__The glass circle comes loose and Harry lifts it out, placing it beside himself gently and lowering himself through the barely-man-sized hole carefully._ _

__“I’m in,” he murmurs. “Cut the power.”_ _

__The maze of red laser light flickers for a moment and then dies with a quiet whine._ _

__There are expensive-looking bits of tech and file folders and a huge vault in one wall. Harry... is not sure what, exactly, he's meant to grab._ _

__He only has fifteen seconds, and he doesn’t know what to grab. Probably he should’ve taken a closer look at that file, but - his gaze catches on a briefcase as he sweeps it around the room again just as Captain Swift hisses “get a move on” in his ear. That’s the one._ _

__He starts to swim through the air, because it seems like the best course of action when hanging from a bungee cord and needing to be several feet forward from where he is. He tries a breast-stroke first and it works alright, so he keeps going._ _

__He’s almost got it now, fingers reaching, when suddenly a door opens on what Harry thought was a solid wall, and out steps the man that Harry has just vowed to avoid._ _

__Harry’s fingers slip, the briefcase falls, Captain Swift is swearing in his ears and the lasers are coming back on around them. There’s no shrill alarm, but Harry supposes he’s not the one who needs to hear it. He’s sure it’s being tripped somewhere._ _

___It's him._ Harry's heart restarts going triple-speed, and he's never been so grateful to have an itchy woolen balaclava covering his face when the familiar man mutters, "Styles, Harry Styles. Shaken, not -- hey!"_ _

__“Get out _now_ ,” Captain Swift hisses in his ear and Harry knows he’s in deep shit when he gets back to her, but he knows he’s in even deeper shit if he stays. He doesn’t even try to grab the briefcase, just reaches for the button that will whirr him up the rope again._ _

__"Hey!" the man calls again, and Captain Swift was right: he is handsome. He doesn't _look_ like the devil, but if Harry remembers correctly from a few Sunday School lessons, that's a bit the whole point. "Hey, come back! Are you him?"_ _

__Harry isn’t even tempted to answer, but it doesn’t matter - before he can, or indeed before he reaches the glass ceiling, the world shifts around him again, the vault below and helicopter above replaced by endless stretches of space, the voice in his ear replaced by the almost familiar far off conversations and doors._ _

__That was a close call. _What's happening?_ Harry isn't religious enough to really think that guy's like, some kind of demon trying to take his soul. Not _really_. But he's been everywhere, and honestly Harry still doesn't quite understand how he himself's been everywhere, either._ _

__But he doesn't have much time to worry about it._ _

__He lands, this time, in a pile of soft wood shavings. It's hard to worry about anything: a mask of alert peacefulness slips over his brain, so while he's having thoughts, it's like they're less urgent. It doesn't much matter how he got here, or who that man is. Not when there's that delicious-looking bundle of timothy hay over in the corner._ _

___What?_ _ _

__Harry hops over to it before he has in any way decided to do so, his hind legs propelling him forward gently but with an underlying power that tells him he could go much farther, if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He wants the hay._ _

___Again, what?_ _ _

__He's worried about this. He is. He can _feel_ the worry, still, bundled under his heart, which seems to be beating much more quickly than usual. But he can't quite... name the worry. He doesn't have the words for why, exactly, it's troubling to be this way, because it's a nice way to be. His ears twitch to pick up the sounds around him: low rumbling like Dusty's sleepy purr back home, the chitter-chatter of various birds, a wet bubbling bounded up by a mechanical whirr. And human children, shrieking and babbling, too._ _

__Munching on a bit of hay he scents the air, his nose twitching and whiskers grazing the hay stuck from his mouth. That part’s not worrying, at least. But he’s not alone here either and that’s worrying in the same way the other thing is worrying. He’s not so sure why, because he also knows he’s not supposed to be here alone. He wasn’t expecting to be alone. He was scenting the air to make sure he wasn’t, in fact, alone, not the other way around._ _

__It's interesting, having whiskers. Harry as a human doesn't have even one whisker yet; Gemma's always teasing him. These whiskers are... probably not the same thing anyway. They're a little like hypersensitive antennae, measuring out the tension in the air around him. Also, he suspects, if he tried to fit into a space that was too small, his whiskers would tell him not to go there, but he isn't keen to test it._ _

__Instead he keeps happily munching on this absolutely delicious hay, ears flicking to make sure there aren’t any sudden changes around him. There is that empty space right behind him that’s a bit unsettling. He could just..._ _

__Harry shifts his legs around a bit, hopping once, twice, and once more, so he’s finally beside the hay more than right in front of it._ _

__Better. Nothing to worry about anywhere to be seen. Just the small space he can move in and the other bunny._ _

__The other bunny does not seem to be so content at the moment, which Harry finds ridiculous. What is there to be so keyed up about? But the other bun is darting around their enclosure in a circle, around and around and around until the wood shavings are flung in all directions. Harry swallows a bit of hay and peers at his manic companion._ _

__He picks up a bit more hay with his mouth, though more gently this time, and drops it on the ground between them. He didn’t want to hop over if he’s so keyed up, but watching him was making Harry a bit dizzy. He’d prefer if he stopped._ _

__The bunny does stop, though he skids a little because the shavings have all been thrown aside from his circle and the plastic beneath them is slippery. He looks at Harry straight in the face and tilts his head, nose twitching. He's a different sort of bunny from Harry; fluffier, Harry thinks, and his eyes are pale. Harry thinks they're blue, because they look different from the hay which he assumes is green because Human Harry knows it must be. All of the colors around them are muted. It's a bit like an old home movie on a VHS cassette: the colors are faded and have the same sort of base of beige, but the logical part of Harry that's left under the bunny brain knows they _are_ there._ _

__The other bunny’s ears are flicking back and forth and he’s scenting the air. Harry tries to stay still and wishes his heart weren’t beating quite so quickly. Can the other bunny hear that? Will that make him more nervous?_ _

__Anyway, if he doesn’t eat the hay, Harry’ll have more of it. It really is delicious._ _

__The other bunny’s nose twitches once more and then he takes a tentative hop towards to the hay Harry just dropped for him._ _

__Harry smiles. Or, well, Human Harry tries to smile but that’s not really something bunnies do, so he... he’s not quite sure what he does, actually, but his whiskers are moving again._ _

__Maybe he should just thump his leg on the floor?_ _

__What if he's stuck as a bunny forever? He's probably safe. Even the devil wouldn't hurt a bunny._ _

__How would the devil even know where to find him? He wouldn‘t go looking for a bunny, would he? Harry’s always been human so far -- except for those five minutes in the woods when Harry had four legs to trip over and still, somehow, two arms as well. That wasn’t human._ _

__If bunnies could snicker, Harry would be snickering. He feels a bit like Bart Simpson that time he turned into a butterfly _because no one suspects the butterfly_._ _

__The other bunny tilts his head the other way and slowly, tentatively, thumps his foot back. _Hi.__ _

__Harry kicks up a bit of the remaining wood himself in his excitement to thump back. Oops. _Hi.__ _

__The bunny nudges the hay with his nose, but doesn't eat. He thumps twice. _What's this?__ _

__If Harry could, he would roll his eyes. Obviously, it is food. Also a peace offering and maybe even a bribe._ _

__He nudges the hay with his nose twitching it at the feeling and then nibbles on it a bit. _See? You eat it. It’s good.__ _

__The bunny thumps madly. _What is this shit?!__ _

__Harry flicks his ears back. Shit? Excuse the hell out of Harry. He didn’t need to pick it up and offer it to the other bunny. He doesn’t have to try and make him comfortable. Here he is anyway, out of the goodness of his high speed heart, and getting it all thrown back in his face._ _

__On the other hand, the manic bunny really does look distressed. Harry takes a slight hop forward, and when his compatriot doesn't start running again, another. They're only a bunny's width apart now._ _

__Bunny Harry, it seems, can basically only measure things in the unit of 'how many of me could fit in that space.'_ _

__He hops across that remaining space as well. The other bunny flinches a bit, but doesn’t back away or kick or bite him, so Harry sniffs him a bit more from closer up - definitely freaking out, the other one is - and then just sort of-- puts his head on the bunny’s back._ _

__He smells familiar: the human Harry brain pings on something, too. He's someone besides Bunny Harry's companion._ _

__Harry can’t quite place it, so he nuzzles his nose into the bunny’s fur, and when he finds a tangle, licks at it._ _

___Ew._ _ _

__The bunny calms, though. At least he stops shaking. He thumps a foot once. _Who are you?__ _

__Bunny-Harry isn't sure how to answer. He nuzzles back. _I'm me.__ _

__The other bunny twitches his nose a bit and then nuzzles back. _You are.__ _

__After that, they settle into an easy bunnyhood. Or rather, Harry ponders, in the long golden hours of one afternoon, probably a regular bunnydom._ _

__He forgets how much time passes, or rather he doesn't care if it’s not the time between meals or the last time he’s been groomed by the other bunny. Just regular bunny worries. The devil mostly slips his mind._ _

__The other bunny acclimates to Harry's presence well, though he still refuses to eat the hay. He'll take a nibble when the human comes by and replenishes the brown pellets in their feed bowl, but he thumps unhappily all the while._ _

__Harry really doesn’t understand why he’s so fussy. And, in Harry’s humble opinion, he hay is tastier. Sure, he pellets make him feel properly not-hungry and energetic and everything, but the hay is really good._ _

__Harry doesn’t understand, but it works out well for them that way, so they spend their time companionably._ _

__Once the shop quiets down and the humans leave and the big, scary animals like dogs and cats fall asleep, Harry and the other bunny groom one another and have little races across the enclosure and tunnel beneath the wood shavings to see what's on the other side (not much)._ _

__It’s... fine, really. It’s not a bad life. It’s not likely to get him killed if he’s a bit to human and continues to try and laugh, and he’s not crushingly lonely either. The company is nice, there’s food provided and while it gets a bit boring in this cage, at least nothing from the outside can get in any more than they can get out._ _

__Every so often, a tiny human hand will wriggle between their bars and ruffle his fur. He doesn't mind. Sometimes, it's even nice._ _

__It's not quite as nice as when, one night, after the only sounds in the shop are the bubbling and whirring of the fishes' filters, his companion bunny flops onto his side, completely content and safe with Harry. His pale eyes shine up at Harry in the dark and invite him to flop down, too._ _

__So Harry does. Lets his body go lax and flops down onto the wooden chips and blinks at the other bunny slowly. Even his heart rate feels like it’s not as fast as usual._ _

__There's a buzzing awareness in his bunny body that his belly is exposed like this, that he can't run away with his usual speed. But it doesn't matter. It's just him and his companion._ _

__They haven't exchanged names. Harry suspects that real bunnies don't have them when speaking amongst themselves. He's Me. The other bunny is You. It's all they need to know._ _

__Over the past however many cycles of light and dark and noise and less noise, You has become so familiar to Harry that he’s sure he’s eventually going to fall asleep like this. Open and vulnerable and pleasantly safe with his companion._ _

__The other bunny gets up and flops back down a little closer, so he can nuzzle his face in between Harry’s ears and give him a lick. Harry’s fur does get to get tangled there. Maybe he has curly bunny fur._ _

__Harry snuggles closer. It's comforting to be so close to another beating heart._ _

__They wake up before the light and noise comes back, the way they always do, but Harry can tell the other bunny has settled a bit. He doesn’t immediately run the perimeter of their cage, and he eats slowly before coming back to Harry’s side to groom him._ _

__Harry nuzzles back. They hop across the cage a few times to exercise and Harry laps water from their bottle. A few small hands weave between the cage bars to pet him and he allows it with relish._ _

__Until his ears twitch at the loud voice. It's garbled, but the human-Harry's brain knows those sounds. "Mama, I want this one!"_ _

__The other bunny’s ears twitch as well, and he cowers a bit, like that might make him blend in with the wood chips on the ground. There’s nowhere to properly hide in here, is the thing and Harry doesn’t like the feeling, doesn’t like the hand reaching in and grabbing him by the neck._ _

__His feet aren't touching anything his feet aren't touching anything his feet aren't touching anything he does not like this this is bad this bad SQUIRM SQUIRM SQUIRM GET ON THE GROUND GET ON THE GROUND --_ _

__There’s a squeaking that cuts through his panic enough to make him look down and see the other bunny race around in circles in the cage, kicking up wooden chips and trying to jump up to Harry. No no no no no no no, Harry doesn’t want to leave can’t just leave him here he needs to get back--_ _

__The little bunny world melts around him like Dali's clocks and then the doors are back, spinning and cold and empty, snatches of conversation too loud around him as they fly open and slam shut, the colors all too bright as his eyes regain their human vision. And then he's spit out again, two-legged and tall and slow-hearted and on solid ground._ _

__The shift in his center of gravity makes him stumble, but he lands properly bum-first on a futon sofa. There's a dark splotch to the left of his thighs, but otherwise it looks and smells clean._ _

__Well. Okay. This is... this is okay. Harry blinks his eyes a few times and twitches his nose. For a strange moment he sort of misses his whiskers._ _

___His whiskers. What in the world--?_ _ _

__His hands fly to his face. Just to check. No whiskers this time, although there is a little scraggle of peach-fuzz on his chin and his upper lip. _Nice_._ _

__He wriggles his fingers and toes just to make sure everything’s normal and then glances around. There’s a tiny kitchen just to his left and a door to the right that he assumes leads to a bathroom. A few bookshelves and some posters on the remaining wallspace. Everything looks secondhand, except for the things he recognises from IKEA catalogues._ _

__He's wearing jeans and a jumper, which is comforting in its way._ _

__He never really thought about it, but the whole time he was a bunny, he was naked. That's a long time to be naked in public. Poor bunnies._ _

__The jeans are much, much tighter than any that he's worn before, but at least they're normal. Recognizable. Human._ _

__There’s a hole coming in at one of the knees and he pulls at a loose thread, wondering what Mum has to say about that. If he’s living on his own then she’s probably not dragging him out to get proper clothes anymore. Seems this-Harry doesn’t do it by himself._ _

__Looking up, he reaches up to push the hair that’s fallen in his face back. It’s a lot longer than he’s ever worn it. Like, down to his shoulders long._ _

__Wait. Tight jeans, long hair -- Harry shoves a hand into his pants._ _

__Nope. Still there. Evidently this-Harry must not be teased about having a girlish face and liking _The Notebook_ and The Saturdays and he just dresses how he likes, rather than how the other boys think is cool._ _

__He bounces up from the couch with a bit of a grin pulling at his lips and flicks the lightswitch as he steps into the bathroom._ _

__Huh. His hair stays curly when it grows longer then. Not as curly as he’s used to it, but those are definitely curls, down by his collarbones._ _

__And... _whoa. Tattoos!_ He pulls the neckline of the loose black jumper down so that he can see more clearly, but there they are, two songbirds across his collarbones. Now that he's looking, he can see that his wrists and even the webbing of one thumb are littered with little squiggles and symbols and marks. The jumper's a little see-through and he can just barely make out a large shape on his stomach._ _

__He pulls up the jumper's hem. Huh. It's a massive butterfly. _Butterflies in his stomach_. Harry snorts. this-Harry is a dork, and he has inked it into his skin. Harry can work with that. It’s a lot easier to deal with than Spy Harry, or Ice Skater Harry, at any rate. There’s no one in the immediate vicinity who seems to want to kill him. So that’s a plus._ _

__Harry pats the butterfly and is pleased by how hard the muscles are beneath his hand. this-Harry may be a dork, but he's kind of a fit dork. A fit dork with good fashion sense._ _

__There’s a bubbling sort of ding noise from the other room that makes him look up and pulls his focus from studying his own body. That sounded like a text message. Harry has absolutely no idea who would be texting this-Harry or what this-Harry would answer._ _

__Harry looks over his shoulder. The flat's still empty. He wanders out of the loo and back towards the main room. There's an iPhone on the side table next to another sticky dark splotch that Harry suspects used to be either tea or beer. It's a thinner iPhone than he knows at home, a slightly different shape, but when he tries his passcode, it works. This definitely belongs to him._ _

__There’s a “Nialler guitar emoji pumpkin emoji” texting about being a bit late to “the coffeeshop” later. Apparently Harry’s meeting someone later and he doesn’t know when or where. At least one of those is solveable by scrolling up a bit, but he has no idea where this coffeeshop he’s supposed to know about is._ _

__He scratches the back of his head, reading through the last several texts between himself and Nialler. They're mostly an exchange of jokes, a _pun-ups'-man-ship_ contest, if he says so himself, which he does, and laughs again. He likes this-Harry's life, at least. Probably. It doesn't seem that Nialler is the assassin, anyway._ _

__The long hair feels nice under his hand, too. He runs his fingers through it a few times just because._ _

__Okay. Well. He’s got a bit of time still, until he’s supposed to meet this Nialler person, so Harry can just go see if there’s a coffeeshop around somewhere and if something seems familiar. Muscle memory seems to work pretty well for him. And if not, he can just fake illness and get out of it. Or tell Nialler to come see him at his flat._ _

__Although given that there’s someone apparently trying to find and kill him, maybe he shouldn’t invite sort of strangers to his flat._ _

__He stands and heads back to the loo to wee and snoop a bit. Inside the medicine cabinet behind a toothpaste-spackled mirror are some tubes and pill canisters labeled both STYLES, HARRY and HORAN, NIALL, so Nialler must be his roommate._ _

__Or --_ _

__Visions of the sad, lonely Harry's flat filled with hidden photos of Harry and a man who no longer shared his home fill Harry's mind. Is Niall... is Niall this-Harry's _boyfriend_?_ _

__Huh. Alternate Harrys seem to be boyfriend types. Maybe._ _

__There’s nothing that stands out in here though, so he goes to peruse the bookshelves. The posters are for bands he’s never heard of and films he hasn’t seen and given that one of them says “2014” on them he figures it’s not just because they’re obscure French films or something._ _

__Another James Bond comes out. That's neat. Daniel Craig is still Bond and still looks exactly the same even though Harry's changed so much in four years. He supposes that's because Craig's older. He still looks dapper in the Bond tux._ _

__Harry doubts he could pull off a suit that well, even with his broader shoulders and the firm stomach underneath his butterfly tattoo. But, well. James Bond probably doesn’t have a butterfly tattoo. Harry’s just not the type, is he._ _

__He opens the cupboard near the front door and grins. this-Harry _is_ the type for lovely coats and hats, though. Or else Nialler is, but they must be close enough that he wouldn't mind if Harry shows up for their meeting in a borrowed hat._ _

__There’s a black pea coat that catches his eye and Harry pulls it on. It fits him well, so he figures that means it’s his or he should be on the lookout for a person of his own stature. He should maybe go through the photos on Harry’s phone and see if he can glean anything from them._ _

__There's a whole rack of hats. Big, floppy sun hats; fedoras in three colors; tweed newsboy caps and snapbacks and a rainbow array of wool beanies. Harry even spies a beret and plops it on his head with a grin, trying to get it to sit right. How does one even put a beret on correctly?_ _

__Maybe he should just go for a beanie? He knows how to wear those._ _

__No. There's a beret here, which means this-Harry, this tight-jeans-and-tattoos Harry, this might-have-a-live-in-boyfriend Harry, wears berets. Or dates someone who wears berets._ _

__Harry is going to wear this beret and he is going to do it holding his head high. It’s not like anyone from his old school will suddenly pop up and tease him for it._ _

__He adjusts it on his head and then runs to the bathroom to look in the mirror. _Delightful_._ _

__He pushes the phone into one pocket with a little more struggle than he’s used to and then thinks he should probably find a wallet and keys before he leaves. And note down the address, once he’s outside, so he knows where to go back to._ _

__The front door opens into a residential neighborhood of a city he doesn't recognize. Not from here, anyway, not without the corporate skyscrapers and landmarks that mark the differences between any two cities anymore. It could be London or Manchester or Sheffield or even somewhere like Bristol, for all he knows. The accents of a couple walking their dogs down the side of the road aren't American, at least._ _

__He types the address into the phone and then pockets it again. He’ll just wander around the neighbourhood, see if there’s anything that stands out. See if he can find any coffeeshops._ _

__God, he hopes this-Harry didn’t have actual things to do before seeing Nialler today._ _

__They live in a nice neighborhood, wherever it is. There are murals painted on the sides of a few buildings turning the alleyways into art spaces filled with sunflowers and geometric shapes and multicolored honeycomb studded with fuzzy bees. An allotment garden is still covered in tangles of green vines even though the breeze is nippy enough that Harry's glad he put on the pea coat._ _

__Harry really likes it here. If X-Factor doesn’t pan out, he wouldn’t mind ending up somewhere like here._ _

__But nice as it is, nothing stands out to Harry. There’s no muscle memory for him to let take over, and so he takes corners and turns randomly, going where he feels like. He passes a Sainsbury’s, which is good to know if he stays long enough to need to feed himself, but doesn’t help him on his quest to find The Coffeeshop._ _

__Around a few turns and finding _a_ coffee shop turns out to be the least of his problems._ _

__Instead, finding _the_ coffee shop may be a challenge._ _

__"I'm a hipster," Harry mumbles, looking at the candy-colored row of little shops touting ESPRESSO! MACCHIATO! TATTOOS! USED BOOKS! USED RECORDS! LATTE ART! "This version of me grew up to be a goddamn _hipster_."_ _

__Harry’s not sure why he’s so surprised by this - he’s wearing a beret after all - but there’s a James Bond poster in his living room, so maybe there was room for doubt. Although that could be Nialler’s. Maybe Harry put up all the ones of the obscure bands._ _

__Now would be a good time to scroll through his photos. Maybe he’ll recognise Nialler when he sees him._ _

__All of the photos on his mobile are black-and-white landscapes or macro shots of puddles and shoes. He is the hipster of the household. It's very pretty, but none of it is useful for figuring out his life story. At all._ _

__There’s not even a photo of Mum, or Gemma. Or his roommate. No photos of friends or parties. What if this-Harry’s antisocial and lonely after all? There’s only this Nialler in his life and Nialler’s about to break up with him? Or move out?_ _

__Harry grunts as he shoves the phone into the too-small pocket. Well. He'll try the ESPRESSO! door first._ _

__There’s jazz playing inside and the whole interior is very... designed. Sleek. Modern. Almost a bit cold. Harry’s not sure he likes it. It smells great, of good coffee and freshly toasted bread, but it doesn’t seem like it’d be where this-Harry hangs out either. Harry was expecting something a bit more... homey._ _

__Unless of course that’d be too hipster mainstream and this-Harry is going full circle and landing himself back in actual mainstream._ _

__He hovers in the doorway, his hand finding its way back into the long smooth hair at the back of his head like it's a comfort blanket. He worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth as his eyes dart from person to person sitting at the low chrome-and-glass tables. There's a girl in the corner with long, tangled white hair and a ukulele. A man in his thirties with an honest Victorian handlebar mustache and burgundy bicycle shorts._ _

__Harry hopes that isn't Niall._ _

__The man seems to sense Harry looking at him, or maybe it’s just a coincidence, but he looks up and his eyes glide right over Harry without any sort of recognition._ _

__Harry sighs in relief. Not Niall. Thank god._ _

__The door opens behind him and someone mumbles a “‘scuse me” as they shuffle past him. Harry flushes and moves to the side, looking down at the girl. Her hair’s pastel purple and she’s wearing a mini skirt over thick woolen tights. Harry’s gonna go out on a limb and assume that’s not Niall either._ _

__He keeps hovering until it's clear no one in the shop is going to save him by shouting "Oy, Harry! Mate! It's me, your roommate-or-boyfriend Niall! Come sit here!"_ _

__The air outside feels even more chilly after the slightly overheated coffeeshop, so Harry hunches his shoulders up and burrows his hands into the pockets of his coat. Only three more coffeeshops to go. Assuming that one of these is indeed the one he’s looking for._ _

__The next coffee shop is much more familiar than he'd thought from the painted brick exterior. It's just a regular chain: familiar caramel-brown pleather chairs and wooden tables, a chalkboard menu across the back wall behind the baristas' counter and an anemic case of pastries that Simon and Barbara would despair at Mandeville's._ _

__There’s a girl manning the till with smile that reminds him a bit of a shark and hair that’s more of a lion’s mane. She doesn’t look familiar either, and though she glances up and definitely sees him she doesn’t show any signs of recognition, so Harry glances around the shop._ _

__No one looks up at him here, either, but there are some mums with little toddlers squirming on their laps and a few uni students with laptops at the tables. Two squashy armchairs are empty in the corner, and it's so nice to be somewhere that feels... normal. Harry sits in one. If this is the wrong place, Nialler will text again._ _

__He should probably order something if he’s going to be taking up room, so he takes a moment to peruse the menus on the wall behind the counter, when a boy’s voice calls out for him._ _

__“Caramel latte for Harry Styles?”_ _

__Harry jumps. He hasn't even ordered yet! And a caramel latte; gross. But --_ _

__"Er," says one of the mums. She swaps her little girl to the other hip. "I ordered a caramel latte. Could it say 'Hattie'?"_ _

__“Right you are, Miss. Apologies,” the boy behind the counter says. Harry looks from the mum along her arm to him and -- freezes in his place._ _

__That... that’s him. That’s the delivery boy. The boy at the skating rink. The one who strolled into his top secret mission planning on _killing him_._ _

__But his eyes are so blue, so unmistakably blue, that Harry knows. It's _You_._ _

__That’s the one trying to kill him. The one his Captain called “the devil”. But it’s also the bunny Harry just spent who knows how long snuggled up with and grooming. He _definitely_ wasn’t trying to kill Harry when he was licking snags from his fur._ _

__Unless it was a very, very long, slow, game plan. Lick all the way through to his brain, or something. Like waterboarding with a bunny tongue._ _

__If so, it was quite a strange and ultimately useless plan, Harry thinks._ _

__But he remembers being that bunny, remembers how calm the bunny brain had made him. Maybe it’s just that he forgot about hurting Harry. Maybe he just didn’t recognise Harry._ _

__Harry certainly remembers. The way it felt to be cuddled up beside each other, flopped on their sides in perfect safety together, noses nuzzling in the dark silence. He was good company. He didn't make Harry feel... endangered._ _

__"I've got a vanilla Frapp for Harry Styles?" the boy tries, lifting the whipped cream concoction high._ _

__Harry stiffens as a boy in a school uniform steps up to the counter._ _

__“Danny?” he asks, looking slightly intimidated._ _

__“My bad,” the barista boy says smoothly and hands the drink over with a charming smile._ _

__The girl behind the till grabs a dishtowel and thwacks her colleague with it. She’s saying something to him, but Harry can’t hear her from here. Probably she’s telling him to stop messing around._ _

__He has a nice smile when he mugs back at her. His eyes crinkle at the corners like he's smiled more times than the years in his face should allow._ _

__Harry sort of wants to smile back._ _

__How can this be the bunny who snuggled Harry, but also the one sent to kill him?_ _

__He stays hunched in the corner in his squashy armchair to watch for a while. Maybe the day he spent as a spy paid off after all: he's _observing the target_._ _

__The boy keeps glancing at the door every other moment and whenever there’s a name even slightly similar to Harry’s on the cup he calls out for “Harry Styles”. Now that Harry thinks about it, last names aren’t usually called out at coffeeshops at all. He’s definitely looking for Harry._ _

__He seems harmless, though. If Harry's honest, he seems incompetent. He definitely is no more accustomed to being a barista than he was at being a bunny that first night._ _

__Harry sort of wants to buy him a muffin. Maybe that’ll calm him down. It seemed to work well enough with the hay._ _

__Maybe he should chance it. Walk up to the counter and order something. After all, he didn’t actually read that file Captain Swift handed him. Maybe... maybe there’s another explanation._ _

__He'll just wait a little longer for Niall. Unless -- unless that _is_ Niall._ _

__No, assassins and demons don't text their victims to meet them at the local Starbucks. That would be stupid._ _

__If Niall were the assassin, he would know that Harry doesn’t know where their usual coffeeshop is, wouldn’t he? He would. He’s obviously following Harry through these strange worlds, so he has to know._ _

__Harry’ll wait a bit longer, see if this Niall person shows up. Or if barisa boy demon bunny stops asking for Harry Styleses._ _

__It's sort of funny watching everyone answer to his own name. There are a whole flock of primary schoolboys who have to show You their ID's to prove they aren't Harry Styles, and then a little gran gets so worried that her hearing is going that the barista boy has to come out from behind the counter to reassure her that it was _his mistake, really, ma'am, so sorry_._ _

__If this boy is an assassin, he’s really not very good for it. For one, he doesn’t even seem to know what Harry looks like. For another, he’s going to get himself fired from this job, if he keeps up the antics, and if he’s using it as a cover, then he should probably keep it._ _

__Nialler doesn't text again, so Harry stays, waiting. The sun lowers in the sky outside and a light drizzle begins to fall as the sun sets, making everything a bit darker and cooler and sleepier. It's hard to stay alert and worried about a soul-sucking demon assassin in a place like this._ _

__Once the crowd thins of officepeople getting their last coffees before the commute home, Harry finally stands and makes his way to the counter._ _

__He can’t say his heart’s not in his throat, because if he’s wrong, he’s going to have start running really soon, but... You didn’t seem threatening. At all. You seemed scared and freaked out, just as much as Harry is._ _

__“Hi there! What can I get you?” the girl greets him._ _

__Harry glances up at the menu, over at the boy and then smiles at her. “Just a tea, please.”_ _

__"Chai, Hibiscus, Mint, Spearmint, Jasmine Orange? English Breakfast? China Green Tips? Chamomile?" Her chipperness is unyielding._ _

__“Mint,” Harry says, a little overwhelmed with the choice._ _

__“And your name?”_ _

__“Harry,” he says, heart hammering away._ _

__Her eyes light up. "Oooh," she coos. "So you're the mysterious Harry, dark and handsome."_ _

__Harry feels his cheeks flush and hopes they’re not glowing as brightly as they feel. No one other than his mother has ever called him handsome. Well, Gemma has, but her sarcasm was almost palpable._ _

__“Um,” he says. “I guess.”_ _

__She winks and taps her nose knowingly. "I'll let you keep the surprise. Lou! One mint brew! I trust you know how to make that one?"_ _

__“Barely, love. Is that the one with the cup and the hot water?” the boy - Lou, apparently - teases back. The laugh lines around his eyes are lovely up close, though he seems a bit worn and tired. He doesn’t even bother glancing at the name on the cup before he grabs it and fills it with hot water._ _

__"Ta, now you're getting it." The girl watches her companion out of the corner of her eye and if Harry isn't mistaken, she's practically shaking with excitement over whatever's about to happen._ _

__Probably not murder, then. If it is murder, at least it won't only be Harry who's surprised._ _

__Harry hands over the correct amount of change and then sidles over to Lou’s side of the counter so quietly it probably would’ve made Spy Harry proud, watching the boy plop a bag of mint tea into the steaming cup of water before he pops a plastic lid on._ _

__“Mint tea for... Harry?”_ _

__Harry reaches for it and clears his throat. "That's, er. That's me."_ _

__Lou’s gaze snaps from the name on the cup to Harry’s face. He’s frowning, but his eyes go wide when he looks at Harry._ _

__“You’re You,” he says, staring at Harry’s eyes. Probably that means Bunny Harry had the same eyes Human Harry does, just as Lou’s were still blue._ _

__"I'm Me," Harry confirms. He feels a bit faint. The cup of tea is hot in his hand, makes his fingers tingle. "And you're... You. You were there the other times, too. Weren't you?"_ _

__Lou nods and runs a hand through his hair, like he can’t quite believe Harry actually showed up. “I was a bunch of places, yeah.”_ _

__"Um," Harry hedges. "Wh-why? Why were you everywhere? And um, like... how?"_ _

__Lou lets out a laugh that sounds a little like it’s not just amused. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?”_ _

__Harry blinks. "You, you, you... don't? Know?"_ _

__"No!" You, Lou, shakes his head and unties the back of his green apron. "I'm going on break, Suze." He looks back to Harry. "I went to bed at home in Donny and woke up a fucking dolphin. Maybe a porpoise, fucked if I know. And then it just... spiralled from there."_ _

__“You... a dolphin?” Harry asks. Lou just went to sleep? That seems a bit unfair. “I was coughing up blood and fainted and landed in a forest.”_ _

__"You're lucky," Lou snorts. "I had a good panic until I figured out how to breathe."_ _

__Harry nods and takes a sip of his tea, burning his tongue a little. Fair enough. “You said... Donny? Are you from Doncaster?”_ _

__Louis nods. He doesn't start to cry, but his eyes go haunted. It's been a while since either of them were home. "Yeah. What about you?"_ _

__“Holmes Chapel,” Harry says. “Cheshire. Up near Manchester.”_ _

__“Posh boy,” Lou grins._ _

__Harry shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe I was, but... where are we?"_ _

__Lou shrugs. “I’ve been here the whole time since Bunny Time.”_ _

__"Me, too!" Harry smiles. "I liked being a bunny. But I like having human legs and stuff again, too."_ _

__“Bunny was alright, I suppose. No breathing issues,” Lou concedes. “Have you been in the shop the whole time? Why did you wait so long to come up? I kept calling your name.”_ _

__"Why are you following me?" Once it comes out, the words don't stop. "Everywhere I've been, you show up just after, and then when you leave... the whole world ends. Who are you? What do you want with me? Why can't I go home?"_ _

__“Following you? I’m not following you! You’re just everywhere I go! The first time I didn’t blink right back out of existence I was told to bring you this box. I didn’t leave, you weren’t there! You’re never there and then I have to try to find you all over again!”_ _

__"What about -- you were going to kill me!"_ _

__“No, I wasn’t! Why would I kill the only other person who seems to be playing some sort of music chairs with the universe? What are you even talking about?” Lou says, face stuck between outrage and amusement._ _

__"When you were the demon-spy-assassin!" Harry yells. The chatter around the Starbucks falters and then they're left with only the overhead soundtrack of some white guy bleating a pastel bastardization of "Buffalo Soldier" to mask their argument._ _

__Lou looks taken aback and then laughs. The background chatter returns as people lose interest in the two boys in their early twenties arguing about demon spies._ _

__“You mean before the bunnies? When I was working for MI6 and you were the clumsiest CIA agent any world has ever seen?”_ _

__"I -- I -- they gave me a file." Harry pouts. "Your picture was in it. Why'd you have a _file_ if you were a good guy?"_ _

__“I don’t know! I was told I was going to be assisting on some CIA thing, but as soon as I showed up all hell broke loose. It’s not like I’m an expert on being a spy either.”_ _

__Harry's eyes narrow. "Oh, _are you not_? Really? Prove it."_ _

__"You want to prove that I'm not an expert spy?" Lou's hands are delicate when he flutters them in agitation over the tabletop. "How exactly do I fucking do that, then?"_ _

__“I don’t know! Just... last time I saw you they told me you were _the devil_ ,” Harry says, frowning a little._ _

__“No, last time you saw me you were feeding me hay and licking my back for me.”_ _

__Harry pouts again. "Well, I didn't know you were a bunny-murderer."_ _

__“Murderer-bunny," Lou argues. "Otherwise it sounds like I kill rabbits, and I would never."_ _

__“Sounds like something a bunny murderer would say,” Harry grumbles, but can’t help but smile a little._ _

__Lou smiles back._ _

__“Say I believe you,” Harry sighs. “If you don’t know how we got here or where we are, and I don’t know either - what do we do?”_ _

__Lou from Doncaster slumps, his elbows hitting the table with a thunk. "I don't know. When I rang home, no one answered. They never answer."_ _

__Dread curls around Harry’s stomach like ice._ _

__“I haven’t called,” he says. He’s not sure he wants to, if they won’t pick up._ _

__"Well, how do I know _you_ aren't a murderer, then, if you haven't even called your mum." Lou sounds snippy, but Harry can tell that it's just to cover a sniffle at the back of his nose. He understands that: even thinking about his own mum makes his chest ache._ _

__Harry bites his lip in contemplation. They’re at an impasse. Harry can’t _know_ for sure that Lou isn’t dangerous, but he doesn’t seem it. He seems just as Harry’s feeling - confused and lonely and frustrated. And Harry’d really prefer not to be doing all of this - whatever it is - alone._ _

__Lou rubs at his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut before he lets his hand drop back down and looks across the table right at Harry. Harry feels a bit naked under the direct gaze._ _

__“Look,” Lou says, “I don’t know who you are, but you’re the only one I’ve come across who behaves like something’s off. So I’m going to go out on a limb and... trust you. At least that you’re not trying to off me. If you are, you’re frankly doing a shit job.”_ _

__Harry's brow furrows. "Well, so are you. And I've never been the one trying to kill you. I gave you hay, even."_ _

__“I never tried to kill you either! It’s not my fault your CIA pals had the wrong idea about me,” Lou says. “I’m going to go home to Donny, to see if anyone’s there. You can either come with me, or we can go our separate ways.”_ _

__Harry feels a little itchy. His leg jitters beneath the table, and he runs his fingers through the long, soft curls at the back of his head again. "What if I go home and no one's there?"_ _

__Lou’s mouth sets in a grim line, and the shrug he gives is sharp. “I don’t know. At least then you’ll know for certain?”_ _

__“That’s not very comforting,” Harry says, pressing his hand down on his leg to make it stop moving._ _

__“Well, I’m not here to be your babysitter,” Lou spits._ _

__Harry recoils a little, about to bite back, but then sighs. It’s easy to forget that Lou’s in the same situation, probably just as worried about going home and finding no one as Harry is._ _

__Harry chews the inside of his cheek and twists his hair between his knuckles. Maybe he'll grow his hair out when he gets home -- real-home, the home where he knows Mum and Gemma and Robin and Dusty are definitely there, the home where he's sixteen and meant to audition for the X-Factor tomorrow. "Alright. Er, I guess we should find a train station?"_ _

__Lou heaves a sigh, and Harry watches his shoulders slump._ _

__“Yeah. Good idea,” he says, and then wriggles in his chair so he can shove his hand down the pocket of his jeans._ _

__Harry copies him, pushing his hips up off the chair a little and grins to himself. Good to know Harry’s not the only one who wears really skinny jeans here._ _

__"I have to get my stuff from the back room," Lou says. "There's a locker with my name on, so the other-me must have left a wallet or summat there."_ _

__"What is your whole name?" Harry asks. "Just in case, like. What if I have to find you again?"_ _

__“Oh. You mean, if we -- jump? Again?” Lou asks._ _

__Harry nods._ _

__“Oh, um. Lewis Tomlinson. Or Louis. Spelled like the French,” Louis says._ _

__“Yours changes? Mine’s always the same. I’m Harry Styles,” Harry says. He feels a bit like he should offer his hand to shake, it’s only polite after all, but also like that’d be a bit ridiculous._ _

__"I know," Louis says. "I've been calling your name for all day now trying to get you to answer but it didn't work."_ _

__“Oh,” Harry says, his cheeks flushing a bit. Right. “Right. Sorry... about that.”_ _

__Louis smiles a bit. “It’s okay. I guess I can’t blame you for being wary.”_ _

__"You weren't so scary as a bunny," Harry offers._ _

__"How very dare you. I was the fiercest rabbit there's ever been."_ _

__And then he darts off through the Employees Only door. Harry can hear a bit of metal clanging and a muffled curse, followed by a loud crash and a quiet, _oops_._ _

__The girl behind the counter rolls her eyes affectionately and shares a chagrined smile with Harry like she’s expecting him to be used to this as well._ _

__“You okay back there, Lou? Did you break something again?” she calls over her shoulder._ _

__"Nope, all good!" Louis reappears through the door. He's attempting to stuff a wallet into the tiny pockets of his very-tight jeans, and a mottled red jumper is covering his black work shirt._ _

__"Come on," he hisses in Harry's ear as he passes. "I had to break the locker open because I didn't know the combination. Let's hope we're done with this part of this world."_ _

__Harry’s eyes widen and he presses his lips shut against the giggle that rises up in his throat, but he scrambles out of his chair and follows Louis towards the door. He throws a smile and a wave back at Louis’ colleague just before they step back outside._ _

__The air hasn’t gotten any less cold, and Louis’s still only wearing a shirt and a jumper._ _

__“Was there not a jacket or something in the locker?” Harry asks, burrowing into his peacoat._ _

__"It's not _that_ cold," Louis says. "I've got warm blood, my mum says."_ _

__“Are you saying I’m, what? A lizard or something?” Harry says, shoving his hands into his pockets. It _is_ cold._ _

__"No, stupid. Just like... I've got little sisters and they always want a cuddle because my hands are never cold or anything." Louis sounds embarrassed even as he keeps talking, like he knows it's not cool to miss his family so badly. But Harry understands._ _

__“My sister and I are equally cold-blooded, so when we were younger we used to hold hands all winter,” Harry confesses. Gemma and he haven’t done that in years, probably not since Harry was old enough to go to primary school, but suddenly he misses it fiercely._ _

__"How many sisters you got?"_ _

__It's clear that neither of them has any idea where they're going, but Harry is content to pretend that he's letting Louis lead. The streets are cold and busy and the sun is fading, but at least he isn't alone as they weave around corners and then double back when they lead to dead-end alleys._ _

__“Just the one,” Harry says. “She’s older than me so she knows everything, of course.”_ _

__He’s used to thinking of Gemma as at least vaguely annoying - always perfectly polite, perfect grades, turning all his mates’ heads - but he’d give anything to have his big sister with him now, if he’s being honest. It’s not that he and Gemma don’t get along at home, they get along a lot better than a lot of Harry’s mates and their siblings, but there’s nothing like a little reality switch to make you miss your family._ _

__And Gemma would have made sure she had a map before she left the nice, warm Starbucks._ _

__“So you’re the baby?” Louis asks, letting his gaze sweep over an intersection like it means anything to him, before turning left._ _

__Harry follows._ _

__“Yep,” he says. “How, um. How old are you? Back home? Cause, like, my age changed a lot in the different worlds.”_ _

__“Yeah, mine too,” Louis says. “I’m eighteen. You?”_ _

__“Sixteen,” Harry says, studying Louis a bit. He couldn’t have said whether Louis-in-this-world was older or younger than him. They look roughly the same age._ _

__“A wee baby then,” Louis teases, horrible impersonation of a Scottish accent pulling Harry’s lips into a smile._ _

__“Heeey. It’s only two years,” he protests._ _

__“See, the fact that you feel the need to protest and point that out really just proves my point, little one,” Louis grins. “Never fear, Harold, I’m used to it. Younger sisters, remember?”_ _

__“‘m not a girl,” Harry mumbles, flushing. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, just, Harry’s not. And ever since his hair grew curls he’s been getting tired of reminding people. It’s lucky his voice broke a few months ago and dropped far lower than any of his mates’. Ha. Serves ‘em right, really._ _

__“D’you think that could happen?” Louis asks, face twisted up like he’s trying to figure out if that smell means he burnt toast or the neighbours setting their house on fire._ _

__“Could what happen?” Harry asks, blinking a bit owlishly._ _

__“If we jump, d’you think we...”_ _

__“Might end up girls?!” Harry interrupts, eyes going wide. For a second the thought feels brilliant - maybe he’d be super sexy as a girl, and he could feel himself up all he wanted! - but then like a bucket of ice cold water he thinks that if he were a girl he’d probably look like Gemma and ew, no, god, no, why did he have to connect those thoughts?_ _

__“We’ve been older...” Louis hedges carefully._ _

__They’ve been bunnies, Harry wants to yell. If they can undergo that radical a transformation then a few sex organs are probably not much trouble at all._ _

__“Um,” Harry hedges, unsure what to say. “I guess?”_ _

__Louis sighs heavily. “Still better than a fucking dolphin, I reckon.”_ _

__If Gemma were here she’d probably have something to say about that, but Harry thinks he can let it slide. He’d much rather stay himself as well. Or, well, return to it. But otherwise, stay as familiar as possible. It’s enough that at least one, or maybe more, of the Harrys he’s been apparently fancy boys._ _

__Although that may not be as unfamiliar as people back home might think. Harry lifts his hand and runs his fingers through the long strands of curls at the back of his neck again, and he looks at Louis in the corner of his eye._ _

__Harry would like to say it's only this-Harry, or that other, lonely Harry with the brown-eyed man in the face down photo, but he knows it’s not. He knows the spark of admiration for the cut of Louis’ cheeks and the blue of his eyes is Harry himself._ _

__Now that he's pretty sure that Louis isn't a supernatural murderer bent on stealing his soul, Harry can admit that he looks like someone that he, the real him, would probably like. There are laugh lines beside his eyes even though he really can't be much older than the Harry of this world, who seems like a uni student. Harry's visited schools with Gemma; he's seen enough uni boys to judge._ _

__Not many of those had laugh lines, but most of them had the day old stubble and that kind of lazy don’t-care attitude about their clothes. Not that Louis looks bad, he doesn’t, but he looks like he’s still glad he doesn’t have to slip on slacks and a shirt and tie first thing in the morning even a good few years out of school._ _

__Louis reaches up to smudge a hand over his cheek. "What? 'Ve I got coffee on my face? Had a few explode on me."_ _

__“No, no,” Harry hastily says and looks ahead of him again._ _

__“Just...looking,” he finishes lamely._ _

__Louis makes a vague noise at that, but Harry doesn’t dare look over to check for his expression. He’s not-- he doesn’t want-- this _really_ isn’t the time to maybe check out a boy, is it?_ _

__"It's cold," Louis comments. His hands are small where they rub at his arms. "It wasn't winter when I left home; was it winter for you?"_ _

__“No, it’s, um, early July,” Harry says. He’d rather be back in summer as well, but at least he had the foresight to wear a coat and hat. Warm-blooded as Louis claims to be, he can’t really be comfortable in only his jumper._ _

__"For me, too." Louis sounds relieved. He's still clutching his arms, but Harry thinks maybe he's less cold and more... quietly afraid._ _

__"Here," he offers. He shoulders off the nice, thick pea coat and drapes it around Louis' shoulders._ _

__Louis looks up at him with something halfway between bemusement and bewilderment._ _

__“What are you doing?” he asks._ _

__Harry shrugs, glad for how the heat in his cheeks is rarely visible. “We can take turns.”_ _

__Louis pulls the coat closer around himself, but he doesn't slide his arms through the sleeves. "Thanks. I'll give it back to you before the trains leave."_ _

__“You’d better, I’m sure this-Harry spent good money on it,” Harry jokes._ _

__Louis snorts. “How would you know? You’ve spent your day sitting around a coffee shop while I’ve been working. Maybe this you is _independently wealthy_.”_ _

__Harry hums. "Maybe I should stay. I do like the flat this me has."_ _

__“Well, you can, if you want to,” Louis shrugs. What you do once I’m on my train is your business, but I’m holding your coat hostage till then.”_ _

__Harry smiles a little. "I don't really want to stay. I just want to know why... like, how... we're here. And then I want to know how to get home."_ _

__“Don’t care much why I’m here, to be honest,” Louis says. “If we find out how to get home, like, properly, then I’m good.”_ _

__Harry twists his hair. "You don't wonder why we've been tumbling around the universe? Or like, whatever we've been doing."_ _

__“I mean... sort of? But there’s no rhyme or reason to any of this, is there? It doesn’t seem like we’re meant to learn something or anything. I mean, what the hell were the bunnies supposed to teach us? I had trouble remembering I was a person most of the time,” Louis says, pulling the coat a bit more tightly around himself and looking straight ahead. “It’s just not a priority. I’ve got-- I just want to go back.”_ _

__Harry nods, but he doesn't quite agree. He thinks that Louis made a rather good bunny in the end, once he calmed down and -- maybe -- maybe learned to trust Harry._ _

__Maybe that’s why they are here. Maybe Harry’s meant to help Louis learn something and Louis’ meant to help Harry._ _

__Maybe Harry just can’t imagine this happening without a point to it, if it’s going to happen in the first place._ _

__He looks down at the pavement and scuffs the side of his boot along the kerb. "I liked being a bunny. It was peaceful."_ _

__Louis laughs and briefly it looks like he’s reaching out for Harry, but then he’s curling his hand underneath the coat._ _

__“Yeah. Stressful too, though. Bunnies get so stressed out so easily.”_ _

__"I didn't at all," Harry says. "But I didn't do so much sprinting as you did."_ _

__"I couldn't help it!" Louis exclaims. "All those giant kids lookin' at me all the time; I hated it. Being stared at and the fingers reaching out to touch me." He shudders._ _

__“They were just petting you,” Harry chuckles. A bit of affection is always nice, Harry thinks, though he did prefer snuggling with Louis when it happened. He doesn’t think that’s the right thought to voice right now though._ _

__"Well, I'll pet 'em right back next time they're a bunny and _I'm_ a giant toddler with lolly juice on my fingers," Louis grumps._ _

__Harry sort of wants to reach over and pet Louis right now, what with how the frown lines on his face make him look a bit like a toddler himself._ _

__But he's only 80% sure that Louis isn't a murderer, so he won't risk it. Even disregarding the other 20%, Louis literally just went on about how he doesn’t like to be petted by strangers, and for all intents and purposes, that’s what they are, bunny snuggles or not._ _

__"I wonder why it's you," Harry says. They pass a pizzeria that smells _amazing_ and he's tempted to ask Louis if he'd be willing to stop for a few slices, but Louis seems hellbent on finding a train to Doncaster._ _

__"Why what's me?"_ _

__"That I keep seeing. Why not, like, my sister or someone from school? I just wonder, like... why it's you and me."_ _

__"Just unlucky, I guess." Louis pauses and sniffs the air. His nose twitches just the same as it did when Harry knew him only as You._ _

__“Rude,” Harry comments, even though there’s a smile twitching at his lips because he’s fairly certain Louis didn’t mean to insult him. He just seems to say vaguely humorous things when he doesn’t know what else to do._ _

__Louis sighs exasperatedly and turns to Harry. “I didn’t mean-- Look, have you got any idea how to find a train station?”_ _

__"Er." Harry pulls his fancy futuristic iPhone from his pocket. "I'm gonna guess Google Maps still exists in whatever this is. Have we just been wandering?"_ _

__"I didn't think trains would be hard to find," Louis snaps._ _

__Harry doesn’t point out that if they’re in a city the size of London then they could probably wander for a good while before happening on a train station, and instead pulls up the maps feature. It all looks a bit different, but it’s still essentially the same, so it’s not too long until he’s presented with the nearest train station and how to get there._ _

__“Here,” he says, angling the phone a bit towards Louis so he can see better._ _

__"Well, I've been leading us the right way," Louis says._ _

__Harry does not reply, _yeah, if we're going the scenic route in a circle._ Instead he makes a vague noise and starts back off down the pavement, surer now of where they’re going._ _

__Louis' cheeks and nose are pink with the wind. It _is_ rather cold out now that the sun's set, but Harry doesn't ask for his coat back. ‘S not very polite that, is it? Offering your coat and then taking it back._ _

__“Have you got money on you? For the train?” Harry asks._ _

__"I did work all day," Louis says. "Boiled my fingers down to nubs to make a buck."_ _

__“Didn’t know coffee shops handed out money at the end of every shift.”_ _

__"Tips," Louis says brightly. "And charm. I'll get a ticket."_ _

__“You yelled out the wrong name all day and still got tips?” Harry is suitably impressed. He’s not even sure why he brought it up, if he’s being honest, other than to have something to talk about._ _

__"I'm very charming," Louis repeats. "And hilarious, and rather pretty."_ _

__Harry agrees with all of those things, but he’s not sure how well that would go over, so he laughs instead. “My coat does look dashing on you.”_ _

__Louis smiles, and this time it doesn't look as manic. "It's very warm. Thanks."_ _

__Harry beams, flushed with pleased warmth himself._ _

__They aren't as far off from the bustling train station as Harry had thought, looking at the map. It's teeming with people in business clothes pouring off the trains and checking devices that Harry thinks look like tiny iPhones on watchbands before they go rushing off up the stairs and out onto the street to hail cabs._ _

__“Well, we made it,” Louis announces. “Time to find a ticket machine and a timetable.”_ _

__He stalks off into the madness with a determined set to his shoulders, and Harry stumbles over his first steps trying to keep up with him. He’s still not sure he could face going back to Cheshire only to find out his family’s not there, or don’t recognise him._ _

__His stomach twists. He's glad he didn't get that pizza._ _

__"Louis," he calls, then coughs and tries again. "Louis, wait."_ _

__Louis looks at him over his shoulder and does slow down a bit, but he doesn’t stop. “Well, keep up, Curly.”_ _

__"It's not that," Harry says. He wraps his arms around himself; his stomach really does hurt. "I just... what if I get home and it's not there? You're -- you're the only person that I know I at least... like, kind of know."_ _

__Louis pauses and studies Harry for a few moments, teeth set into his bottom lip._ _

__“If that happens, we’ll meet back here, okay? My phone’s got a passcode on it, but I can’t figure it out, so I can’t give you my number. But if there’s... we’ll meet back here.”_ _

__"But what if your family is there?" The roiling in Harry's gut reminds him of the way he'd been coughing just before he first fell. Even if Louis can get home, that doesn't mean -- well. There are a lot of possibilities, and he doesn't like all of them._ _

__“I don’t-- I don’t know,” Louis says. “They’re my _family_ , Harry.”_ _

__“But they’re not, are they. Not really. You’re-- you’re not this. You’re eighteen!” Harry doesn’t want to ruin this for Louis and if he gets to see his family that’s great, lovely, but Harry also doesn’t want to be alone and he wants to go home. He’s not sure he can do it alone._ _

__"So we'll all be older!" Louis' brows gather in the middle and his cheeks are red now, not pink. "I can't just stay here and work in a bloody Starbucks because you turned up to give me your coat."_ _

__“No, but don’t you want to go home? What if there’s no one where we started? _Your mum_ and _your sisters_ left without you,” Harry presses. He tries not to think about Mum, and Gemma, and Robin worrying, but he can’t help it. Is time still passing back home? Did he just vanish from where Gemma was holding him?_ _

__"I can't not check," Louis argues. "I can't just give up on them. And not try. Be a baby if you want and stay here, but I can't pretend like I'm not -- I have to make sure they're okay."_ _

__“You don’t even know if this-Louis has them,” Harry points out._ _

__“Fuck you,” Louis says and takes off Harry’s coat, dropping it before turning around into the crowd._ _

__"Louis!" Harry calls, because he can't, _can't, he cannot_ have Louis mad at him in a world where he may have no one --_ _

__But he steps forward before Louis can hear him, and his foot never stops._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Harry falls through the dark again, and this time his stomach doesn't fall at quite the same speed: it might be retained nerves, but the twisting and rolling as he falls through space do not exactly ease his nausea.

And, when he does land, feet-first on a brown-wet road, the smell doesn't help, either. It hits him like a wave: unwashed bodies and animal hair, fire and smoke, rot and wood, filth and waste. The hard-packed dirt beneath his boots squelches, and Harry isn't sure whether it's animal or human mess that he's landed in.

"Shit," he mutters. It's both an observation and an exclamation.

Rough hands shove his shoulders and it's all Harry can do not to stumble right down into the muck. "What did you do? Why won't you let me _go home_?"

The relief that courses through Harry’s veins is immediate and so heavy it makes him a little dizzy for a moment.

Louis is a lot younger this time, face soft, and hair, though messy and frankly in need of a wash, a comb, or maybe just some scissors, longer, swooping over his forehead and almost down into his eyes. He can’t be older than fifteen, at the most. His voice is lighter than it was last time, and he’s dressed... he’s dressed like every poster of a Renaissance fair Harry’s ever seen, only not like an aristocrat. Not the fancy puffy pants or neck things, but scraps of fabric held together by good stitches and more goodwill.

But he’s the only thing here that Harry recognises, and as such, well. Relief.

It’s selfish, he knows, what with Louis just having found a way to maybe find his family, but Harry’s glad he’s here.

“What did you do?” Louis repeats, giving Harry another shove, this one more forceful, making Harry stumble back and bump into a man who turns around to drunkenly slur at him. Harry recoils automatically, just barely remembering it’d probably be incredibly impolite to cover his nose.

“I didn’t do anything!” he insists instead. “You turned around and suddenly I was falling and then I was here!”

"Well, you must be doing something!" Louis' eyes are frantic behind the wisps of pale hair -- not angry. Just scared. That loosens the knot in Harry's stomach a little, even though Louis' jaw is set like anger is going to be what he pretends for a long, long time.

“If I were doing this, don’t you think I’d’ve just sent us home instead?” Harry counters.

For a second he entertains that he _is_ doing this, somehow. _You’re a wizard, Harry,_ and all that. He doesn’t have to know that he’s the one doing it to be the one doing it. But that’d bizarre, that’s _fiction_. It doesn’t happen in real life.

Louis opens his mouth to speak, but before he makes a sound, it snaps shut again and he points down a crooked alleyway. There's a small child with their pants around their knees, weeing right on the ground, and no one else bats an eye. Things like _that_ don't happen in real life, either.

At least, not anymore.

"Erm," Harry asks. "Not to like, change the subject, but when d'you suppose we are?"

"Maybe we're pirates," Louis says. His voice is dull, but not as dull as it could be.

That's a start.

Harry dares a smile.

“Maybe,” he says and doesn’t dare point out that the land’s pretty solid underneath their feet - and underneath the layer of mud and muck that Harry’s trying hard not to think about standing in. He can’t smell the sea, but he’s trying very hard not to think about all the things he can smell, so maybe they’re in a harbour town. Who knows?

Louis juts his chin again. "You better hope not, 'cause I've a mind to stab you once they give me my sword."

“I’d probably have a sword too, if you have one,” Harry points out. He’s fairly certain even if they do, neither of them would be very good at using them. Though, what does he know. Louis could be a fencer back home.

Louis looks, if anything, more disgruntled at that. "Well, when do _you_ think we are, if you're so smart?"

Harry shrugs, looking round again. He’s never been all that great at history. “No idea. Seems a bit Renaissance fair, doesn’t it?”

"So not the Renaissance, then. Those things are shite." Louis shrugs at Harry's sidelong glance. "My ex Bethaney was really into them, but she said they weren't 'accurate.' And I feel like probably by then there was less actual shit in the street, if I remember anything from school at all."

“If you say so,” Harry says. “Judging by the state of our clothes, we’re probably not rich, whenever we are.”

Which, now that he thinks about it... Harry pats his clothes down for any pockets or pouches or satchels or something tied to his person. Do either of them have money?

Louis looks down at his own apparel and wrinkles his nose. "Don't seem to know how to work a washer, either."

Harry glances at the dirt under his own fingernails and wonders when he himself has last had a wash.

“Urgh,” he says.

They stand in silence, growing accustomed to the smell and the ruckus around them. There are people everywhere, milling or standing, and children jousting with sticks or playing some kind of complicated clapping game. The accents are strange: Harry doesn't think that they're in America, but it doesn't sound like England, either. Animals plod through the mucky street with the same abandon as the children, and no one acts like it's anything unusual to see as many stray horses and sheep as cats and dogs. None of them look particularly clean, either.

“Do you think whatever got us here can get us away again?” Louis asks. “Like, now?”

“If you know how, please be my guest,” Harry says.

Louis sighs and runs a hand through his hair before pulling it back with a grimace to look at. “This is weird. Time travel’s never like this in the movies.”

"Well, we don't have a police box, at least." Harry reaches up to swat a fly away from his ear and is pleased to find that his hair is still long.

"Geek," Louis snorts. He pauses. "I'm hungry. I wish I'd said yes to that pizza."

As if in agreement, Harry’s own stomach bubbles a bit, and Harry almost welcomes the change from the earlier roiling if it didn’t leave them with a very obvious problem. There’s definitely no pizza wherever they are.

“So do you just... want to wander until we find food?” Harry suggests.

"I guess." It's not a thrilling proposition. "I don't feel like I trust the hygiene. Suppose there's a health department?"

Harry grins briefly, the idea of medieval or whatever health inspections funny, for some reason. Some bloke in a fancy hat taking notes with a fancy quill.

“Suppose our bodies are used to the food here.”

"But my mouth's not," Louis whines, although he pulls his boots free of the muck and they start down the street, skirting around an ornery mule. It chews something, slow and placid, and swallows just as its back end makes room for more in its stomach.

Harry feels a bit queasy again, but he supposes food must.

“Urgh,” Louis says, eyes twinkling at Harry a little, even through his own obvious disgust.

Harry gently elbows him in the side, and then says, “But seriously, do you have money on you, cause we’re going to have to pay for whatever food we find.”

"No, but I'm charming," Louis says. "And I have quick hands." His mouth twitches. "Sometimes at Tesco I'll swap the label from the day-old 99p sandwiches onto the fresh ones."

Harry gasps exaggeratedly, but there’s a thrill spiking at the base of his neck anyway. It’s not that he’s never thought of that, or of snagging that roll of 99p day-old stickers he saw lying out that one time, but he hasn’t ever actually done it.

Louis shoves him again, eyebrows drawn. "Well, I dunno where you're from, but some sandwiches just ain't worth £4.99, and I haven't got that for bad sandwiches all that often."

“True,” Harry agrees even though he’s never felt it was _necessary_ for him to switch the stickers on the sandwiches. If it’s food, Mum’ll just reimburse him later, as long as it’s not outlandish or only sweets.

But the sandwiches often just _aren't_ that good.

A cat runs out from the open, wooden door of what looks like a shop and streaks like calico lightning right to Harry. It purrs louder than a freight train and rubs its head against his ankles.

“Oh, hi,” Harry says, leaning down to pet it behind it’s ears. Does this-Harry know this cat?

The way the cat gazes up at him would lead him to think that he does. Its cheek is soft when it nestles against his palm. The tiny pink tongue that arcs out to lick over its teeth makes Harry look up to the sign above the door.

ÞE PUE HOWÞ

“Please tell me that doesn’t say _Poo House_ ,” Louis says.

“It says _Pie House_ ,” Harry says, laughing at the relief on Louis’ face and then briefly wondering why he knew for certain what that sign said when it looked like gibberish in the first moment. Must be this-Harry’s brain.

Louis squints.

Maybe he needs glasses.

Maybe this-Louis can't read.

“So are you going to work your charming magic?” Harry prompts. He’s honestly a bit nervous about actually stealing something. It’s not such a minor offense if they snag a few pasties in this time, is it? Would they get locked up? Thrown in the stocks? Their hands chopped off? Harry really should have paid attention in history class, but he really doubts when Mr. Witherton said the knowledge would come in useful he meant _this_.

The cat is still winding around Harry's ankles, preening itself and begging for attention. He leans down to pat its back, but doesn't take his eyes from Louis.

Louis squares his shoulders and gives a decisive nod. The effect is ruined slightly by his soft face, and generally rumpled appearance, but when he strides into the shop, Harry follows. So does the cat.

"Harry! Louis!" cries the woman behind the counter. She's missing quite a few teeth, but doesn't look as messy as many of the other people they've passed in the street.

Louis falters, and Harry locks his jaw against the urge to grab on to Louis’ sleeve.

“Good day!” Louis calls back jovially, as though he has any idea who this woman is and why she knows their names.

“I’ve left pies for you two chucks yonder,” she says fondly, jerking her head to a wooden chest off to the back of the room.

Well. That takes care of their money problem at least.

Louis' throat bobs beside Harry. "Me-thanks thee, kindly lady," Louis says, and the woman's eyebrows draw together. Harry can't hold down the snort of laughter that bubbles in his chest.

“Thou art a wag as ever, I see, young Louis,” she says finally.  
Harry makes a dash for the pies while Louis affects some sort of bow-curtsey hybrid in the woman’s direction that has her laughing.

“Shakespeare is looking for you,” she adds.

Louis' mouth gapes. He blinks, blanches, and shuts his mouth.

Harry tucks the rather lumpy pies into his shirt. "Er, of course he is. Thanks be to thee. And, er, prithee... be well... and stuff."

For a moment she looks at them like they’ve sprouted second, and possibly third, heads, then she sighs like she’s given up on them a long time ago and just remembered that, and shoos them off.

Harry makes sure he won’t lose the pies, and then grabs hold of Louis’ sleeve, dragging him back out of the shop. The cat follows them for a few paces, but then something else catches her interest and she veers off.

"You don't think she meant Shakespeare, like... Shakespeare-Shakespeare, do you?" Louis asks. "It's probably a common name. Like, medieval John Smith."

"We're not medieval," Harry says. "If Shakespeare's here. Because it's not a common name. I'm pretty sure John Smith is the John Smith of old England."

“Fucking hell,” Louis breathes, and a young girl passing them gives him a scandalised look that Harry figures has more to do with the second part of the swear. Maybe. For how long have people been saying ‘fuck’, anyway?

“D’you think we’re... actors?” Harry ventures. It’s not pirates, but it’s something. Not everyone can say they’ve acted with _Shakespeare_. No one can say that, since they’re all centuries dead.

"We must be, if we know Shakespeare," Louis says, his voice hushed. He bites at his pinkie nail, then looks at his filthy hands and makes a face, spitting keratin and dirt onto the street. "I'm like -- I'm in drama at school. In the real world."

“Oh,” Harry says, taken aback a bit for some reason by thinking of Louis in-- school. At home. The real world.

“So, this is... cool for you?”

It’s Louis’ turn to look at Harry like he’s grown a second head.

“I’m still not sure I’ve not fallen into a coma and having the most bizarre and longest dream ever, but if I am at least my brain came up with this.”

Harry smiles at him, at the way Louis' eyes have finally lost all of their anger at the way the train disappeared, at the way the _worlds_ keep disappearing. He offers Louis the less-lumpy of the two pies. They're still hot, at least, whatever they are.

“So if you could choose,” Harry says, chewing on the first bite of what tastes like meat, and though he doesn’t recognise the taste specifically, it’s not too bad, so he won’t question it further. “Which play would you want to be in? Or what character?”

Louis’s also chewing, seemingly mulling the question over, until suddenly his face does a very strange thing halfway between crumpling and amusement.

“Harry,” he says, tone heavy like he’s about to impart something of great importance on Harry.

“Yes?” Harry asks, slightly confused.

“Our voices haven’t broken yet. Like, you look, what, thirteen? Fourteen? Surely not more than fifteen.”

By fifteen Harry’s voice at home was a lot lower than it is now, so, no, probably not more than fifteen.

Still, he scowls. It's not exactly the time for Louis to take the piss because his voice could start break, is it? And anyway, his real voice is lower than any of the voices he's heard Louis have. "So?"

“So, when Shakespeare wrote his plays women weren’t allowed on stage in England,” Louis says. “So young boys whose voices hadn’t broken yet played the girl parts.”

"I know that," Harry says, impatient. He _is_ about to enter sixth form, after --

"Shit."

"Yeah," Louis says, nodding. There's a string of unidentifiable meat on his lip. "Exactly. We're _girls_."

“Fairly certain _I’m_ not a girl,” Harry says, grinning, and gives his hips a subtle thrust.

Louis rolls his eyes at him. “On stage you will be. You’ve got the face and the curly hair going on. No way you’re not a girl.”

Harry runs the hand not currently holding a pie through his hair. It is nice hair, long like this. And he is pretty, if he does say so himself.

"Does that mean I have to wear a corset?"

Louis barks a laugh. “Probably. And a wig. And makeup.”

“Well, so will you, probably,” Harry says, and takes another bite of his pie. Louis may be older than him, but not so much that he wouldn’t pass for a girl with a costume and wig on a stage.

Gravy flies out of Louis mouth as he answers, "Well, I'm a fitter girl than you, anyway. I got a nice rack."

"And bum," Harry adds. _Why did he say that? He doesn't even think that! He hasn't even noticed -- he hasn't looked. He wouldn't look. Or think that. Because he wouldn't look._

Louis nods gravely like what Harry said isn’t strange at all. “It has been noted.”

If Harry had said that about one of his mates back home he’s sure they’d have at least laughed at him for noticing another bloke’s bum, even if they wouldn’t have taken him seriously.

Louis doesn't even look like he's been phased by it. And he doesn't punch Harry in the sternum, like Will would.

They chew their pies in silence, or in the relative silence of a bustling Elizabethan London street, which is to say loud and chaotic. A small pack of barking dogs run past them in hot pursuit of a rat carrying something large and fetid in its mouth. Somewhere overhead, an infant wails a full-nappy wail. Hawkers cry for wares and people with rangy eyes and gummy mouths babble at invisible companions, flies buzzing over it all.

“We should probably go find, er, Shakespeare,” Harry says, when he’s swallowed his last bit of pie. For a moment he debates licking his fingers clean, but then he wipes them off on his trousers instead.

Louis nods and then looks up, scanning the rooftops around them.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, craning his head for whatever it is that Louis’s looking for.

“Looking for The Globe. It should be taller than all these buildings and that’s probably where we’re needed,” Louis explains.

There's a swoop in Harry's stomach, but he's sure that it's excitement and not pie. The Globe Theatre! Even if he does have to play a girl, Harry loves to be onstage. Winning Battle of the Bands was the best day of his life so far, and singing at Jenny's wedding was a close second, even if that one old woman did keep wandering over with a kirsch in her hands to pinch his cheeks -- both facial and gluteal.

“There!” Louis says then, arm pointing at the rounded wall of The Globe Theatre behind a few rows of houses.

“This is so weird,” Harry says, but beams back at Louis, when Louis turns to grin at him.

“I think you meant to say ‘amazing’.”

"It is pretty wicked," Harry admits. He rubs his greasy hands on his rough trousers again and then combs his fingers through his hair, fluffing up the curls in case today is casting day. If he makes his living looking pretty, then he will be _the prettiest_.

Besides Louis, whispers a tiny voice in his head.

Louis navigates them through the streets with the same determined focus as last time, and even though they’ve never been here before, at least not in this time, they make it to the theatre in only a few minutes.

Harry’s been here before, on a school trip, and also once with Mum, Robin, and Gemma, but it’s different like this. When there’s both more and less space around the theatre, and there’s not a gift shop, and a cement road, but packed earth, and so, so many people walking around the building like it’s nothing special.

"This is the real one," Louis whispers. He reaches out to touch a wooden beam. "Like, the real-real one. The one that burns down. But it hasn't yet. We're here before the fire." He's interrupted in his reverie by an almighty roar and then a cheer from the building alongside -- a bloodthirsty cheer, and Harry remembers that besides theatre, people in Shakespeare's time enjoyed bear-baiting. He shivers.

Louis curls his lips in disgust. Clearly he’s not a fan either.

“I suppose it was time for a reality check,” he says and then sighs a little forlornly.

Harry looks at him for a moment and then bumps his elbow into Louis’ arm. “Bright side - we probably still get to put on dresses in an actual Shakespeare play.”

"Oh, goody," Louis deadpans. But the way he hasn't taken his hand from the building's outer wall, Harry can tell that he's excited.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s find the door and see if we’re actually in the play or, like, doing stage work, or something.”

Harry did reasonably well at wood shop in school. He can probably handle a few tools, if someone could be persuaded to show him what to do with them.

“Yeah, let’s,” Louis agrees, hand trailing over the wall as they walk along it, looking for a stage door. He’s purposely avoiding Harry’s gaze, ducking his head a little like he’s embarrassed by his own excitement, and Harry turns his face away himself for a second, trying to get his grin under control. It’s just sort of... _cute_.

“Oh, hey, look,” he says when he looks back over and catches sight of a few notices nailed to the outside of the building. “They’re doing ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet’ right now. Which one do you think we’re in?”

"Midsummer has more girls," Louis says. "And I have to say that if I am the first person to play Puck, it would explain why Puck is one of the best roles to have even like, five hundred years later when we're from."

Harry bursts into a laugh. “Not conceited at all, are you.”

"I'm just telling the truth, mate." He leaps onto a cornerstone and holds out his arms, balancing on the toes of his boots. His face changes as he lifts his chin to catch the thin slants of sun through the clouds and over rooftops. "I am that merry wanderer of the night. I'll put a girdle 'round about the earth in forty minutes. Ay! There it is!" He leaps down and puts his thumb and forefinger to Harry's chin tenderly. "Fear not, my lord. Your servant shall do so."

Harry blinks, wide-eyed, and suddenly feels heat rush to his cheeks. He swallows against it, and frantically tries to find something to say, something that’s not a compliment of Louis’ recital skills, or, possibly worse, his face.

“What if you’re not Puck? Puck’s not a girl, right?” he manages to ask.

Louis' face drops. "Yeah, you're right. But he is spry. I'm good at jumping."

Harry feels his stomach drop with Louis’ expression, suddenly feeling like a jerk for putting it there in his moment of panic. “Well, that’s one requirement down.”

"Yeah, 'cause they haven't got special effects like rigs and flies, have they?" Louis asks. "Or have they? I don't know what's been invented yet." He scrubs his hands through his hair again and frowns. "Definitely not shampoo."

Harry laughs again, reaching up to pat at his own hair. He’s not sure he’s ever felt it this tangled before. “No, definitely not.”

"Ah!" Louis jumps forward again, skirting a rat gnawing on a hunk of something green and fuzzy. "The door! To destiny."

“To destiny,” Harry agrees, nerves building back up in his stomach when Louis pulls the door open. For a moment he expects the world to shift around them again as they step through, but instead they’re just inside the theatre.

They’re clearly in the back, a corridor possibly behind the ranks or maybe behind the stage and whatever there is backstage. There’s no one to be seen left or right, but there’s faint noise coming from one side, so Louis looks back at him and then jerks his head that way.

“To destiny?” he repeats.

"Yeah, sure," Louis says, but he looks unnerved, too. They're in a maze of wooden planks and darkness.

“We survived being spies, we can do this,” Harry says, faking determination, and grabs hold of Louis’ sleeve to drag him along when he takes a few steps forward.

“We weren’t there for long,” Louis points out.

"And who knows how long we'll be here?" Harry starts walking along one of the dirt tracks toward the rustle of noise. It does get louder as he goes, a mix of voices and footsteps. "We should at least see if we can stay long enough to _look_ at actual Shakespeare."

“I would thou did’st listen more than look, Harry,” a voice behind them suddenly says and Harry barely manages to suppress a shriek as they both whirl around.

Harry wouldn’t have recognised the face without context, isn’t sure he recognises it now, actually, but that-- that has to be Shakespeare, right?

He doesn't look like all the portraits in his schoolbooks. He still has a full head of hair, for one thing, and it's ginger, not dark. His beard and mustache are better groomed than anyone Harry's seen yet, but when he smiles at the boys, he's missing some of his yellow teeth like most everyone else. His nose suggests that he's been punched in the face a good few times in his life, but his eyes are friendly. There's black ink all over his linen shirt and grubby, short fingers.

“Oh, er, begging your pardon... sir?” Harry tries.

Shakespeare gives him that same confused/bemused expression the woman in the shop had earlier. _Why_ doesn’t this world-jumping come with automatically correct language skills or something.

"Thou art far past the appointed time of arrival," actual William Shakespeare says, "And yet prithee tell me, why amst I not in surprise?"

Harry figures his best course of action is to look contrite and shuffle his feet. He can’t very well tell the man he has no idea what he’s doing here or what he’s supposed to be doing here. Louis more or less does the same beside him, a little slack-jawed, because _actual William Shakespeare_ is reprimanding them for being late.

Shakespeare sighs.

“Away with ye. Ye best be painted fairies next I see ye.”

Harry and Louis continue on their earlier path and eventually find the source of the commotion, and of the ink on old Will's hands: the stage.

There’s not much going on in terms of elaborate stage setting, or props, but there are actors running back and forth across it, seemingly preparing for a performance of what Harry guesses is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, judging by that comment about the fairies. Now if only they could work out which fairies they’re meant to be and what their lines are, then maybe they can get out of this somehow.

Lines will be easier than just _talking_ to people. The grammar's already there, and Harry doesn't have to figure out whether he's a _thee_ or a _ye_. And maybe the acting’ll be like the ice skating. Muscle memory.

“Harry,” a girl hisses at him from across the stage, waving frantically.

 _Oh, thank god_ , Harry thinks, and nudges Louis, nodding at who he now realises has to be a boy in a dress and wig, before making his way over.

“Where have ye been?” the boy asks, grabbing Harry’s arm and dragging him along as soon as Harry’s within arm’s reach.

"Eating," Harry says truthfully.

The boy shoots him a look that clearly means he doesn’t care for Harry being a smartarse. “‘tis this that puts food on thy table.”

"Oh," Harry says. So they really _are_ actors, then, not just playing at hanging around the stage.

That's kind of an exciting thought, even if this isn't real. Harry would love to be a performer for a living.

“‘tis only the fairies today, but take care ye don’t make him regret ‘tis more tomorrow,” the boy says, rifling through a few dresses and thrusting one at Harry and Louis each.

Harry takes the blue and green tunic, looking it over. It isn't fancy -- just a plain dress, almost a sack, made of the same material as his shirt and trousers. It's very short.

A look over at Louis reveals that his is much the same, only slightly more yellow. Equally short though.

“Quickly now,” the boy says, setting down pots of white and red paints, and two wigs with curly, blonde hair. Harry really doesn’t want to know if that’s real human hair, and if it isn’t what it is made of.

Harry shucks his shirt and pulls the dress on: he can tell now, looking down at himself, that Louis was right to guess him at fifteen, because he doesn't have much armpit hair and he doesn't think Elizabethans really were into manscaping. He grabs one of the wigs and grimaces to himself before pulling it on over his head, trying to tuck all his wayward curls underneath it.

“Come here,” Louis says then suddenly, making Harry look up.

He’s in his costume too, and he’s a lot closer than Harry thought, reaching out to tuck Harry’s hair away for him.

"Thanks," Harry says softly. He reaches up to pull a wayward strand of Louis' wig away from his blue eyes.

"Makeup now," Louis says. "Don't get it in your mouth or eyes if you can help it. Made of lead. I learnt that doing an English unit at school when my teacher made everyone dress up and act out the parts."

“Lead?” Harry repeats, incredulous. “That can’t be healthy.”

“It isn’t,” Louis says, and then proceeds to smear what Harry thinks is as thin a layer of white as possible all over Harry’s face.

"Great," Harry mutters, trying not to move his lips as Louis paints his face. The white makeup is cold and thick, and Louis is having some trouble spreading it with the brush. He abandons it after a minute to use his fingers to smear the base all over Harry's cheeks and chin and forehead.

The touch feels nice, and Harry tries to shake the thought off, because there’s nothing special to the way Louis’s touching him. He’s just smearing some poisonous goop over Harry’s face, for heaven’s sake. No reason for Harry’s cheeks to go red underneath. No reason for Harry’s cheeks to redden because of Louis _at all_ , even if he’s kind, and somewhat handsome.

"You can do me next," Louis says, and -- he isn't making fun, is he?

But Louis’s just looking at him expectantly, so Harry takes the white paint from him, foregoing the brush all together, and tries to spread it as evenly, and thinly, as possible on Louis’ face. It is, in his honest opinion, not an improvement on Louis’ face, but stage makeup isn’t really meant to be, is it? It’s just meant to be visible from the audience, and help them understand the faces better or something.

Once his face is a mask of white, Louis opens his eyes and sighs, measuring up the bucket of red paint warily. "I don't even wanna know what this one's made of. Just don't lick your lips, I guess."

If Harry’s face weren’t already white, he’d probably pale at that.

Harry feels his breath bounce off Louis’ skin hotly as he carefully swipes the red onto Harry’s lips, eyes intent, and swallows heavily.

“We won’t be here long, probably, going by previous experience,” Louis says, and gives him a smile he probably means to be reassuring. It looks a little frightening behind all that white on his face.

"Right," Harry says. "I guess we haven't seen what happens if we're poisoned in one of these... lives, have we."

“Let’s not find out,” Louis suggests.

He paints red circles onto the apples of Harry's cheeks, mutters, _can't even see the dimples now, what a waste_ , and hands the brush to Harry.

Harry’s a little dumbfounded by the comment, but repeats Louis’ actions dutifully, painting Louis’ mouth and the apples of his cheeks a bright, cherry red.

“We’d better hurry,” Louis says then, getting up and reaching under his dress to undo his trousers.

Harry tries to fight down the blush, and turns away to do the same. There’s something crinkly in the hem of his skirt, and when he pulls gently, it comes loose, fluttering to the ground. For a moment, Harry is horrified he just somehow broke something important, but when he picks it up, he realises it’s a piece of paper with a few lines hurriedly scribbled onto it.

“Oh, hey! This must be my script! Looks like I’m, um, Blaunderelle,” he says, turning to Louis.

Louis frowns. “I don’t remember there being a Blaunderelle.”

“Well, that’s what it says,” Harry says. “Maybe it gets lost over the years? I mean, it’s only a few lines, and there’s only this scrap of paper.”

“That won’t be the only copy, I don’t think,” Louis says, but then shrugs.

"And anyway, you can read that?" Louis asks, peering over Harry's arm. "It just looks like mush."

“Yeah, I don’t know... at the pie shop earlier the letters just sort of-- became clear, I guess? Must be residual from this-Harry,” Harry says.

He turns the sheet of paper over, finding another few lines there. “Oh, hey, this one says ‘Mustardseed’. You think that’s you?”

"Well, I am wearing yellow." Louis poses with a knee out. "Gimme." He takes the paper, frowning. He moves it closer to his face, then further away again. "I can't tell whether Shakespeare's handwriting is fucking awful or if I can't read. I can read," he clarifies quickly, looking at Harry. "Like, in real life. I wonder if we could read as bunnies."

“Don’t think we needed to,” Harry says, smiling slightly at the memory of all that fluffy fur. “Maybe you can’t and that’s why I have yours?”

Louis looks disgruntled. "Well, what makes you so special that you can read?"

Harry shrugs. "Maybe I am of noble birth, but had a tragic downfall into the wayward world of the theatre."

"I think you're just a wanker," Louis says.

Harry laughs. “Does it really matter? At least one of us can. D’you want me to read you your lines, so you can memorise them?”

"I know Mustardseed's lines. There are only four." Louis still looks cross, but Harry thinks that it's more about the lack of lines than literacy.

Harry is a little bit impressed that Louis knows these lines. He kind of wants to know if he’s ever been in this play before.

“If it makes you feel any better, Blaunderelle only has two,” Harry says instead.

Louis rolls his eyes, but smiles at him.

“Let’s go. We shouldn’t be even later,” Louis says.

Harry nods and lets Louis drag him through the corridors by the arm, piece of paper with his lines clutched in his hand, and nerves in his stomach growing. Sure, they’re only a handful of words he has to say, and he has cues for them, but how will he know where to stand? Where to go? How to enter and exit the stage? Will muscle memory take over or will he mess up and get himself - this-Harry - fired?

Louis’ eyes are bright as they huddle in among the crowd of actors behind the stage, rehearsals going on out beyond the curtain. He’s trying for glimpses of it, bright and eager, and almost bouncing on his toes, mouthing along to some of the lines.

It’s not the kind of rehearsal Harry would have expected, not what he knows of theatre at all, like a full run through. Instead there’s just disjointed scenes and Shakespeare - actual William Shakespeare, Harry _is_ a bit starstruck about that - making some last minute adjustments.

In the end, Harry and Louis are needed only once, for the entrance of their characters when Titania calls her court, and when they make their way back with everyone to get out of the costumes, Shakespeare grabs Harry’s arm and pulls him aside. Louis hovers uncertainly.

“Um,” Harry says, heart racing because he has no idea what he could’ve done wrong just standing there.

“Harry, ‘tis my great displeasure-- but I must, for the play-- the fairy queen Titania, she hath too many fairies of her court on stage, ‘tis no good,” Shakespeare says.

Harry’s heart drops. Is he... is he really being fired?

“Prithee, understand, boy, ‘tis not your person that offends,” Shakespeare continues.

Harry’s nodding along, but all he can think is that Louis was right, there _isn’t_ a Blaunderelle in the version they know, and now, he guesses, they know why. She was scrapped. Too many fairies on one stage. There’s irony in there somewhere, or at least a very crude joke, Harry thinks.

He means to say something, but he catches Louis move closer out of the corner of his eye, as if to come and, what? Offer comfort?

Harry turns to look at him to give him a smile, but instead he feels that lurch underneath his feet and then suddenly he’s back in between the doors and the lights, falling, but not, leaving Shakespeare and hurtling towards god knows what.

He's getting used to the falling, as much as one can become accustomed to hurtling through an endless void of space and time with no moorings or sense of when the velocity will jar to a stop and he'll be spit out into an unknown universe.

Maybe he's not so used to it after all.

But Harry does recognize where he is this time, when his feet hit concrete: towering above him, blazing with light, is Times Square. He's never been to New York, but he has seen Friends and anyway, everyone knows what Times Square looks like, with all of the lights and the rush. When he looks down at himself, he seems to be his right age, too, newly sixteen and taller than his bones understand yet. He's wearing normal jeans and sneakers and has a comfortable black hoodie. The only thing amiss is that despite the relative warmth in the evening air, he's wearing a pair of fitted black leather gloves.

The sky is a black backdrop behind all the neon lights and ads that Harry only catches when he looks around a second time, and the air smells a bit cool and crisp underneath the smell of a big city. There are people bustling around him, and he apologises twice before he manages to stumble close enough to a building not to be too much in the way. He wants to call out for Louis, but he also doesn’t want to look like an idiot to all of these people, and he doesn’t want to draw attention.

And anyway.

There’s no one else stumbling through the crowd, even though Harry has his eyes fixed on it while his stomach sinks deeper and deeper.

Louis’s not here. He’s lost him.

"Great," Harry whispers. He's alone again, and still far from home.

"Watch it," someone snaps as they bodily move him a few inches away from the glass door of a Jamba Juice. The hands on Harry's shoulders are encased in fuchsia leather gloves, too.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles. He shuffles further beneath the awning.

"You ought to be careful, son," says a lump on the pavement near Harry's feet, making him jump. In the backlighting of the windows and the shadows from the billboards, Harry hadn't even noticed the homeless man and his dog. He's stroking the beagle's matted back with a ragged brown glove, two of the fingers empty and pinned back to his wrist with safety pins. "Girl coulda Worked you when she grabbed your shoulders. Feeling OK? You seem..." He makes a motion with his other gloved hand.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Harry says. _Worked him?_. “Just, er, lost my friend in the crowd.”

“Don’t got a cell phone on you, kid?” the man asks.

Harry hasn’t checked yet but he also can’t exactly tell the man that the chances he’ll find said friend’s number in his phone, if he has one, are slim to none.

"Oh, right," Harry says. He digs in his pockets, but everything feels strange through the leather and lining. He can sense, somehow, that he shouldn't take the gloves off to try again, so instead he pulls out the first square-ish thing he can feel.

It's his wallet. He looks at the man in the shadow of the bright Jamba Juice, and the yellow eyeteeth on his dog. "Er." Harry opens the wallet. American money, alright -- and lots of it. Mainly in hundreds, but there are twenties and tens and small bills, too. "Here." He hands the man a ten.

The man looks a little bemused, but takes the money.

“Didn’t do much, but thanks, kid,” he says.

Harry shrugs awkwardly and wonders if he should just... leave. Find an alley somewhere so he can search his pockets without these gloves on and without looking like an idiot who’s wearing someone else’s clothes - why else would he not know what’s in his pockets, after all?

Louis’s not here, so there’s not need to stick around.

He _is_ hungry, though, because apparently Elizabethan pie didn't fill him up. And he's got more money than he knows what to do with. He opens the door to the smoothie shop and queues on at the end of an enormous line full of tourists chattering in ten different languages, some arguing and some taking photos, others chucking sleepy toddlers up and down, and every one of them wearing leather gloves. Even the babies.

His hunch about not taking them off seems to have been correct then. This is... this is definitely not the New York City of the world Harry was a part of before then. If there were some sort of Manhattan wide trend for every single person to wear leather gloves, Harry would’ve heard of it. Holmes Chapel might be out of the way, but it’s not _that_ far out of the way.

Maybe this is a weird future or parallel world where everything is the same, but there’s a disease transmitted by skin contact or something. Although people should probably be wearing masks too, if that’s the case.

Either way, it’s making him self-conscious, so he shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

He watches the aproned smoothie jockeys whir fruit and take cash with matching sunny orange gloves. A tiny little black baby waves at Harry with a big, gummy smile and little powder-pink gloves that make him smile.

As he's waiting for his Razzmatazz, his pocket begins to buzz. He _does_ have a phone!

And better yet -- when he pulls it from his pocket, the contact is _Mom_.

Harry fumbles a bit when he rushes to answer, unused to the gloves. He clenches his jaw against the rush of emotions that wells up and crashes over him, because even if it’s maybe not _Mum_ , he’ll get to hear her voice, and see her face.

“Mum?” he asks, pressing the phone up to his ear.

“Harry,” Mum’s voice says. It’s that tone she has when he forgot to do a chore, but it’s _Mum’s voice_.

Tears well up in Harry's eyes even though the voice isn't quite right, isn't quite Mum's: she's American, and has a nasal New York edge in the way she says the 'a' of his name. But still, it's undeniably Mum. It's Mum. His mum. Really, really his own mum. "Hi."

“Harry, where are you? You were supposed to be back hours ago,” she says, and Harry cringes automatically in reaction to the tone, even as he’s balancing the phone in between his ear and shoulder to get out his wallet and pay for the smoothie.

“I’m just--” he says, even though he has no idea where to take that sentence. She interrupts anyway.

“You know what, it doesn’t matter. Just get in a cab. Or do you want me to send a car?”

"Er," Harry says. He has no idea where he lives. "A car... I guess. Are you sure that's alright?"

“If it’ll get you here faster,” mum says, annoyed and snappy. “Now, where are you? It’s loud.”

“Times Square,” Harry says.

"Times Square?" Mum blows a breath out through her nose, and Harry has to bite his lip to keep from crying. Mum is annoyed with him! He's never been so happy!

“You know what, we’ll talk about this when you’re back. I’m not sending a car to _Times Square_ , so get your butt moving,” she snaps and hangs up before he has the chance to answer.

Harry lingers with the phone in his gloved hand before he can bear to pocket it again.

What if he disappears before he can see her?

Oh god, oh god. Okay. Home. How does Harry work out where he lives? Maybe he’s got an ID card in his wallet or something?

He sips at his smoothie and decides to follow a clump of people, just in case they're headed towards the subway. There’s bound to be a station somewhere around Times Sqaure, so it’s only a matter of wandering for long enough until he stumbles upon it. And he’s got money to spare, so tickets shouldn’t be a problem either. Judging by the iPhone he was just using, there should definitely be ticket machines.

The huge map on the wall doesn't give him any clue of which train to get on, since he doesn't know where he's headed. The trains whistle and shush and bring blasts of cold air with them when they rush into the station and out again, taking people away towards cheaper digs and dropping off crowds looking for their hotels after a few too many drinks.

Harry dawdles.

Maybe... maybe he’s got something on him. Some sort of clue. A card from his favourite coffeeshop around the corner of where he lives, or something. That’ll give him a clue as to what direction he’s going in at least.

He opens his wallet again, even though he's already paid for his MetroCard, and looks in the pockets that aren't bulging with cash. Not much: a school ID, but it's a private school in Connecticut, so that can't be where he's headed. A Jamba Juice punch card that he vaguely wishes he'd known was there. this-Harry will have to live with having missed out on a stamp. Sadly, the punch card doesn’t help him either, and neither do the two movie ticket stubs, though it’s nice to know this-Harry apparently has a thriving social life.

"Ah!" He pulls a thin pink slip of paper from the very back of the junk receipts and fortune cookie predictions. Driving Permit: Harry Styles, 155 E. 79th Street, 7th Floor.

Beaming to himself and probably looking a bit ridiculous, though a quick glance up reveals that absolutely no one is paying him any attention, he pulls his phone back out and taps the google maps app to find out where exactly 155 E. 79th Street is.

"The 6, the 4, or the 5," he mutters. "Easy enough." Now all he has to do is wait. He leans against one of the poles that hold up the ceiling as every train thunders through, shaking the foundations, and looks at the people around him.

There’s not much difference from what he imagines his New York to be like and this one. People look just like people, mostly in jeans and sweatshirts, the occasional blazer or leather jacket. The only jarring difference is all those leather gloves. Harry balls his fingers to fists inside his own. He wishes he knew what was up with that. It feels like something he doesn’t want to be blindsided by. And what did that man mean, the girl could have _worked_ him?

A little boy in a Jets t-shirt runs pell-mell, screaming at the top of his voice, across the platform and Harry can't help staring as he yelps past, followed closely by a barrel-chested Midwestern-looking father who shoves a few Japanese tourist girls out of the way and perilously close to the edge of the rails to catch him.

"Don't do that here," he yells, grabbing the boy up. "Do you want a Death Worker to get you?"

A chill goes through him as Harry watches the boy stop - petulantly but immediately. A Death Worker? It sounds vaguely terrifying, even if Harry has no idea what it is.

Out of instinct, he balls his gloved fingers up into tight fists in his lap.

The 6 Train pulls into the station bound uptown, and Harry joins the throng boarding. He gets a seat right away, but gives it up to a pretty young woman with a tiny baby asleep on her shoulder and instead holds onto the silver pole. It has grips molded into it so that leather gloves won't slip against the cold steel.

Whatever this gloves thing is about, it’s not new, if even public transport is equipped to deal with it.

Briefly Harry regrets not having found any headphones in his pockets, but he should probably not be too distracted from his journey anyway. Instead, he glances around the train car, at the ads on the walls, and the people.

 _HBGB IS NATURAL_ , reads one poster. _VISIT WWW.WORKERRIGHTS.COM TO LEARN MORE_

Harry doesn’t want to take out his phone right away, doesn’t think he’ll have much of a signal down here either way, but that’s definitely something he’ll look up once he’s home.

A little old man across the train is reading an actual paper newspaper, and Harry can't help glancing at the title. Huge black letters yell, "PARKER TRIAL WITNESSES TAKE STAND THIS WEEK" above a photo of a rat-faced young man looking petulantly at a judge from the defendant's table. His gloveless hands are shackled tight to the wooden tabletop.

Harry’s trying to make out something besides the headline, but other than smaller headlines talking about sports games and Wall Street, the letters are too small for him to read. Harry doesn’t want to look like a creep, so he glances away, but every time the old man turns a page, he glances back, hoping he’ll leave the paper when he’s done with it. And that he gets off the subway before Harry does.

He doesn't, still sitting on the bench reading with a stern expression when the electronic display flips over to read 77TH ST.

Harry hops off the train with a regretful twinge, but it gets swept away by excitement as he’s making his way up the stairs towards the exit. He’s almost home. _Home_. He’ll get to see Mum, talk to her, hug her.

He almost runs the two blocks to 79th Street, skipping every few steps as he pushes faster and faster. Will Gemma be there? Dusty?

There’s a man who tips his hat to him when he almost runs in the front door, scanning the lobby briefly to find the stairs or lifts.

Seventh floor. He'll take a lift. If Gemma is here, she'll make fun of him if he's sweaty and stinks when he gets home.

"Good evening, Mr. Styles?" asks the elevator attendant, pressing the button before Harry even mentions a floor.

“Er, yes, thank you,” Harry says. “Got a Jamba Juice.”

The attendant laughs, like that’s a normal thing for Harry to say, and Harry feels his shoulders sag in relief.

The white gloves on the attendant are pristine. He doesn't say anything else as Harry rides up, but the look in his eyes is... oddly blank. Like he isn't sure why he's smiling.

The elevator doors open directly into a spacious flat, which means that Harry’s family own the entire seventh floor. Okay. Wow. Not bad.

Tiny cat feet run across the sumptuous white carpeting, and Harry drops right to his knees, pulling at the gloves so that he can run his fingers through Dusty's familiar fur. "Oh, you _are_ here, girl, come here, oh..."

“Harry?” Mum calls from somewhere further in the flat.

“Yeah, mum, I’m home,” Harry calls, throat almost closing up around the words even as he thinks he should maybe try to sound a bit more American.

She doesn't look right, when she comes out of -- whichever room it is. She looks like she's in the middle of a business meeting even though it's almost midnight, her face in dramatic makeup like Harry's never seen her wear and her dark hair piled into a tight bun. The earrings and necklace at her throat catch the light in a way that makes Harry think they're real emeralds. She's wearing black gloves, but the third finger of the left hand is cut away to show pale skin, bloodred nail varnish, and a massive diamond ring.

It makes Harry nervous.

“You’re ridiculous with that cat. Do put your gloves back on,” she says.

Harry tries not to let it show, how much she unsettles him with how familiar and at the same time how _unfamiliar_ she is, and lets go of Dusty to pull his gloves back on. Whyever would he need to wear them in his own home?

But then she smiles, and it _is_ Mum. He knows that smile more than he knows his own heart.

He beams back like a reflex, only held back from getting up to wrap her in a hug by her posture, and the fact that she looks like she might be going out, even if it is quite late for that.

“What am I going to do with you, hm?” she asks, voice soft and far more recognisable now than when she was chastising him about Dusty and the gloves.

"Er," Harry tries, "What do you usually do?"

She huffs a little exasperated laugh, but her face looks like she’s genuinely a bit at a loss. “Well, it’s obviously not working. You know they were coming to give you the details for your next assignment today. I had to make excuses for you; _again_.”

"Oh." Is he not at the school in Connecticut anymore? "Er, sorry. I was just... out. Finding myself."

“Well, if you’ve found yourself, you’ll find your assignment on your desk,” she says, tapping the bloodred fingernail against her side, like she’s trying to work something out in her head.

"Okay," Harry says, and feels more chastened than he can understand. His hands are hot in the gloves, and he just wants to bring Dusty to his unfamiliar bedroom and snuggle someone he understands.

He hopes that Louis is okay, wherever he is in this world. He'd wanted so badly to go home to his family; Harry hopes that they're here, too.

“If you’ve not eaten, there’s food in the fridge,” Mum says, and then actually crosses the distance that still separates her from him and leans in to press a brief kiss to his forehead.

It’s something she has done countless times, but even though the gesture makes him ache with how familiar it is, even that is different. It feels distant, even though she's right there. But her hand on his shoulder is gloved, and her lips touch him so softly, barely more than a whisper. Probably to avoid a stain of her lipstick.

He doesn't want that. He wants her to fold him up in her arms like he's still smaller than she is, and embarrass him by leaving a lipstick print, and fuss over him to ask _what happened, I was so worried, are you feeling better?_ and sit with him while he eats. He wants his mum.

Instead, she leaves him standing in the hall with a last squeeze of his arm, and Harry buries his face in Dusty’s fur while he swallows against his emotions.

If Louis has found his family, he hopes he found a version that’s closer to the people he had to leave.

Dusty squirms, but Harry doesn't let her go. He wanders through the maze-like halls of the seventh floor until he counts five bathrooms, eleven flat-screen televisions, and no other cats. At least that's the same.

He finds the kitchen and a plastic container of food in it that looks like it was delivered this way. Harry grabs it and continues his exploration, Dusty successfully squirming out of his hands, now that he's only got the one arm to hold her with.

He follows her path, because she knows this home better than he does, and he trusts Dusty the most of anyone he's met here.

Sure enough, the door she ends up scratching on looks like it could be Harry’s bedroom, if you took out most of the things that make Harry’s bedroom _Harry’s_ back home. There aren’t any posters on the walls, even though this-Harry obviously enjoys going to the cinema as well. There is, however, a non descript manila folder on his desk.

That must be the 'assignment.' Harry sets the takeout container of noodles and beef down on the side of his desk and once again removes his gloves before opening the folder. Dusty leaps onto the desktop and sticks her little face into the container to nibble at some beef in brown sauce, giving Harry a daring eye.

When Harry opens the folder, feeling a strange sense of deja vu, the first thing that stares back at him is Louis’ face. Not just a grainy photograph Harry is relatively certain is Louis, but a high definition headshot. Probably pulled off Louis’ own student ID or something, judging by how he seems to be not much older than Harry himself.

He looks... normal, here, just like Harry. He's wearing a green hoodie and his hair is floppy and a shade too long. He's grinning easily. If he's got gloves, too, then they aren't in the photo.

Harry feels a small smile pull at his lips, and he moves the photo aside to get to the sheet underneath.

It’s printed in clinical Times New Roman, unassuming and even though the first line - “destroy after memorisation” - is definitely ominous, Harry still doesn’t expect it to be followed up with “Louis Tomlinson - termination”.

"What?" he yelps, startling Dusty into knocking the container of Chinese food to the carpeted floor.

Dusty goes for the food almost immediately, as does Harry, trying to shoo her off and scoop the food up with minimal carpet fuzz on the food, and minimal stains on the carpet. At least this one’s not white.

All the while his mind rings with that one word. _Termination._

"What does that mean?" he asks the cat. "What -- it can't mean what I think, can it?"

Dusty chews on a piece of beef, paying Harry and his crisis no mind.

Surely whoever is leaving Harry mysterious assignments isn't expecting him to actually go out and _kill_ someone?

It was -- Mum. Mum! There's no way it means to kill Louis.

Taking a shaky breath, Harry straightens back up and looks over the rest of the sheet of paper. There are all sorts of details there, a description of Louis and a time and place where he's supposed to "run into him" and establish some sort of conversation, get Louis talking, possibly flirt to get close to him.

At the very bottom it says "transformation - movie ticket stub".

Harry's brow furrows. What in the world does that mean?

Now that he’s in his own room and by himself, he can, at the very least, take off his gloves again. Surely it’s fine to do that when he’s by himself.

There's a knock at his door before he can take them off, though, and Gemma sticks her head in. "I heard a clunk, was it your head rolling off?"

"Har har," Harry deadpans. "No, I -- Dusty knocked over the food."

“It’s because you’re spoiling her,” Gemma says, and immediately goes to pet Dusty herself.

It takes Harry a second to watch her scoop the cat up and settle on his bed like she’s done it a hundred thousand times, like he’s seen her do a hundred thousand times, to remember that he couldn’t have been sure she’d even be here.

“Gem?” he asks, voice a little shaky.

She isn't wearing gloves. "Hmm?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Gemma's nose wrinkles. "Are you just gonna fart again?"

Harry barks out a laugh, the exact kind of laugh that always has him reaching to cover his mouth and pretend like he’s never laughed it before, heart all of a sudden lighter than it was before. Gemma couldn’t have changed that much, if he hasn’t. Right?

"No, I swear," he says. He darts to close the door and then snags the envelope with Louis' photo before sitting close to Gemma on the bedspread. "Gemma, look at this thing Mum -- I mean Mom -- gave me."

Gemma looks a little uncomfortable, like she knows what to expect, but reaches for it anyway.

“Harry, you you know I’m not supposed to see these,” she says.

Harry frowns. So it's happened before? "Well, it's just like... look what it says." He points to the word 'termination.' "What does that mean?"

Gemma keeps hold of Dusty and stands, her face as angry as Harry's ever seen it. "That's not funny, Harry. You know I hate this."

Harry flounders for a moment, but he can’t let Gemma leave yet without understanding what’s going on here.

“You think I don’t?” he says, because if it really is what he thinks it is, he can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t hate somehow being in a situation to-- to-- _that_.

That stops her before she steps out the door. She drops Dusty on four light feet, and the cat zips beneath Harry's bed to do whatever it is she's always done there.

"So what's the secret?" Gemma asks. "'Cause that's not. I've always known. I think everyone knows."

Harry holds his breath for two thunderous beats of his heart. He’s not... breaking any rules or so if he tells her, right? Upsetting the equilibrium of the world or something?

He almost scoffs at himself. Right, because flitting from life to life like they’re TV programs is perfectly normal.

“I’m... I’m not really Harry. I mean, I am, but I’m not _your_ Harry. I’m from... a different world?” he tries.

Gemma makes a face. "I get it, working for the Parkers changed our lives, but that's a bit dramatic."

"Parkers?" A lightbulb goes on in Harry's head. "Like the trial?"

Gemma’s eyes bug as she stares at him. “Like the trial? Of course like the fucking-- Harry, are you okay? Did someone Work you?”

"No," Harry says. "Well, I don't think so. That isn't a thing where I'm from. At least I've never heard of it. I don't really know -- what Working is, but no, listen. I got home from the bakery and I felt ill and I went up to my room and then I started coughing up a lung and you were there, and Mum, and Dusty. And then you weren't. And I wasn't, either. I woke up in a forest. And then I was a spy, and a bunny. And I met Shakespeare!"

“You were a bunny and you met Shakespeare. Was he a bunny too?” she asks sarcastically and runs an agitated hand through her hair.

“You’re not making any fucking sense, and that would scare me under normal circumstances but with _that_ going on?” she says, pointing at the folder disdainfully. “Fuck, that’s really not the moment for you to have a breakdown.”

"I'm not!" Harry's eyes well with tears for real this time. "Gemma, it _happened_. I was there. And so was Louis." His lip wobbles, and he has to sit down again. "I know Louis. He's my friend, I think. I think we're... friends."

Gemma doesn’t look like she necessarily believes him, but she sees that he’s about to start crying, so she sits down with him and takes his hands in hers. Skin to skin for the first time since Harry got here.

She rubs her thumbs over his knuckles. "I believe that part. I believe you could've met this... Louis, somewhere. And I believe you like him. But if you ask me, being gay isn't really a secret, either. Not from me."

"I'm not gay!" Harry protests. "That's not what I'm saying!"

She gives him that look she always gives him when tries to get away with something. Sometimes she’s worse than mum.

“I’m not! I don’t-- god, that’s not what’s important at all! I literally don’t know what I’m doing here. Why we live in New York. Why everyone’s wearing gloves. What that stuff about the transformation’s supposed to mean. And what the hell is Working?”

The tears finally spill over and hit his cheeks and he tries to hush his voice lower than a wail: "And I hate this bloody accent! Everyone's talking so fast!"

Gemma’s white as a sheet, but she pulls him into a hug and lets him cry against her shoulder.

“I don’t know if you’re telling the truth of if your head has seriously been messed with, but you can’t tell anyone else, okay? Especially the Parkers. They can’t know,” she says.

"I don't even know who they are," Harry sobs into her shoulder. American-Gemma smells the same. "Why is everyone wearing gloves, and why would -- would _I_ have to kill anyone?"

“The Parkers are a mob family. Mafia. You work for them, Harry. That’s how we can afford all... this,” Gemma says, quietly, like she’s scared someone can hear them talking even here.

“We wear gloves because some people - like you - have special powers. When they touch you, they can... _do_ things to you. You can... turn anything into anything. Or anyone into anything. Like a very inconvenient witness into a movie ticket.”

There are tears in Gemma’s eyes now as well, like maybe she has never talked about this with her Harry.

"But that's wrong." Harry can't lift his head. He's so tired. He's _so_ tired.

"Yeah," Gemma says. "But it's what you do."

“That can’t be true. I can’t-- that _can’t_ be true,” Harry says. Gemma can’t believe that Harry really -- _kills_ people, can she?

Her hands are soft in his hair. "Unless you're very clever and have a real secret, then it is. But it's... I'm sure it'll get better."

“I have to kill someone tomorrow, because if I don’t then probably something awful will happen to you and mum. And Louis’s not from here either. He came here with _me_. We’ve both been to all these other worlds, he couldn’t be a witness at this trial if he wanted to,” Harry says, looking up at her. “I don’t know how anything could get better after that.”

Gemma puts her hands on his cheeks and looks into his eyes. "You don't look like you got Memory Worked," she says slowly. "I believe that you believe what you're saying. But I can't do anything. I mean, I really can't; you're the only Worker in the family."

Harry laughs drily. Of course he is.

“So, how... how does it work?” he asks. Maybe if he knows what exactly is he can do, then he can work out something he can _do_. A way to avoid killing Louis or getting himself killed.

If only he knew how to jump from this world before it comes to that.

"I don't know, really. I haven't asked since you were really little. I mean, I could tell you the biology, but I don't think that'll help. All you knew when you were five was that if you put your bare hands on something and thought really hard, it'd turn into what you asked."

Harry’s eyes go wide.

“You’re a wizard, Harry,” he says, making Gemma laugh.

“Anything?” he asks. “No side effects? I could turn the pillow into food and eat it and that’d be fine?”

"Oh, no, there's side effects," she says quickly. "It's different for different kinds of Work. You get really, really sick, personally. But it's basically like, whatever someone does with their Work, the opposite comes to them."

Harry frowns. Not a wizard then. And also... the opposite? What’s that supposed to mean?

“So if I turn my pillow into a Chinese, the next time I’m trying to eat a Chinese it’ll turn into a pillow?” he asks.

"No, not like that," Gemma says. "More like... when a Death Worker kills someone, a part of their body dies. Or a Mood Worker makes someone happy but they get more depressed."

“Oh. So is getting sick what happens to me? Or does part of me get... transformed?” Harry asks.

"I think you just get sick, but I've never x-rayed you." Gemma keeps holding his hands like it's a deliberate show of faith, and maybe it is.

Suddenly he’s cold. “And I can... I can do it to people? Turn them into things?”

"It's... what you do for the Parkers. When they need it. I don't ask. You don't tell."

Harry feels his lip wobble again and bites down on it. “Can I... can I turn him back? If they’re asking for a specific transformation, they probably want proof, but can I just give them another movie ticket and turn him back and he’ll be fine?”

"I... don't think a person lives through being a movie ticket," Gemma says. "I think that's the point. They're not alive."

“Oh,” Harry says. Dusty darts out from under the bed then and Harry feels like a lightbulb is suddenly going off in his head. They’ve been bunnies before, and they were fine...

“What if... what if I turn him into something that’s alive?”

Gemma shrugs. "I guess he'd be alive. But Parker would probably kill _you_."

“But he doesn’t have to know,” Harry says. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

There are two movie ticket stubs in Harry’s wallet. Maybe... maybe he’s already been planning for something like this. Maybe this is what he _actually_ does when they ask him to-- terminate someone.

"No," Gemma says quietly. "I won't tell Mom, either."

“Thank you,” Harry says, and Gemma gets up from the bed. She ruffles his hair and gives him a kiss that feels far more familiar than Mum’s did, scoops up Dusty and leaves him to himself.

The silence in his room almost rings in his ears, but as he looks around, Harry figures that if he wants to pull this off, he’s going to have to practice.

The next morning is colder than the day Harry arrived in New York. Mom kisses his forehead again over breakfast as she drinks her cup of coffee, but Harry doesn't miss the way she can't quite look him in the eye. He has no idea how this-Harry lives like this - crime and a mother who can’t bear to look at him, never mind touch him.

He’s not really hungry.

Pushing the plate away, he tries for a smile, though he’s almost sure it comes out crooked.

“I’m off,” he says. He memorised the route he has to take last night.

"Good luck, sweetheart." Anne murmurs into her coffee. "Just... remember that no matter what, you're my little baby."

"Yeah," Harry whispers. It's going to be alright. He's going to find Louis. And then he's going to save him. They'll figure this out.

Harry spends most of the subway ride this time going through the plan in his head, only looking up to check he hasn’t missed his station. He knows there’ll be someone from the Parker family close by to make sure everything’s in order, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to pick them out of the crowd.

He’s got to get to Louis, hopefully explain as quickly as possible, turn him into a bunny without anyone noticing, hide the bunny on his person, hand in the movie ticket at the rendezvous point and then... turn Louis back. Get him out of the city. Hopefully leave this wretched world.

The subway stop that Harry disembarks at is in Queens, somewhere near Stockholm Street. It doesn't even look like part of New York City: there are houses, not apartment buildings, and the streets are quiet and almost suburban. There's a huge hospital that dominates most of one block and a few 99-cent chicken joints along the other side of the street.

Louis, ironically, is supposed to frequent a coffeeshop here. Harry doesn’t know what’s going to happen if Louis doesn’t show - how is he supposed to know about this-Louis’ habits, after all? - but when he gets closer, he can see Louis queuing up inside.

Harry takes a deep breath. Show time.

The door jingles when Harry steps through it. Louis is the only person to turn around.

The relief on his face makes Harry's stomach jolt.

Harry widens his eyes, shakes his head minutely and hopes against hope that Louis gets it. He’s not supposed to know Louis. If they have to stay in this world any longer, in a world where Harry works for the _mafia_ , he can’t risk antagonising them.

Louis frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything, so Harry gets into line behind Louis.

“We’re being watched. Pretend you don’t know me but I’m flirting with you,” he whispers, moving his lips as little as possible.

"Er, okay," Louis says. "Is your family here, too? I'm getting coffee for my mum! My actual mum! Although my actual-actual mum doesn't drink coffee, but I guess we're in America -- "

Harry can’t help but grin, glad Louis got to see his family and that his life here is less complicated than Harry’s - or would be, if it weren’t for Harry.

"I'm really glad," Harry whispers. He touches Louis' sleeve. The material feels different through the tiny holes poked into the fingertips of his gloves so that he can get his bare skin on his... victims.

He can’t do it in here though. There’s too many people around, someone would notice if a fully grown boy suddenly vanished, so he lets Louis buy his coffee, grins charmingly at the girl behind the counter and keeps his hand on Louis as he steers him outside.

There’s a grim looking man behind a newspaper, full on movie cliché, who Harry thinks is probably the Parker man sent to watch him. He keeps staring at them.

Harry gives him a tiny nod, and receives one in return.

“You’re being strange,” Louis says, staring at him calculatingly. “Do you know, I’m supposed to be in some sort of trial--”

“Louis, please. You have to trust me,” Harry says as soon as they’re outside and the door is shut behind them. “This is going to be weird, but I _have_ to, they’re _making me_ \--”

"What? It's not your trial, is it? That'd be stupid. I don't know what you've done, and you technically didn't do it -- "

“They want me to kill you, for being a witness-- I can--”

There are footsteps behind them and Harry feels panic well up. There’s no _time_.

“I’m sorry, I have to--” he says and grabs Louis’ arm harder, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking of the bunny Louis has already been once.

"Harry, what -- "

And then Louis is gone.

Or, at least, Harry's heart begs: the _human_ Louis is gone.

There's a small brown rabbit nosing at Harry's shoe with the angriest expression Harry's ever seen on a bunny instead, and he scoops it up and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie.

There's a hand on Harry's arm, hot and heavy and full of the stench of rotting flesh, and then they're falling again.

Harry wraps his arms around his stomach, tries wildly to protect Louis, but there’s nothing there anymore, he’s alone, alone in this vastness and for the first time he’s almost glad that they get to be elsewhere, if only it means that Louis will be fine. _Please, please, please, please, please,_ let Louis be fine.

Louis is much heavier as a human than a bunny, Harry thinks, as they land in a heap on the forest floor again. Louis is lying atop Harry, but scrambles up quickly, his face red with anger.

He's wearing lederhosen. Harry would apologize -- grovel, even -- for turning him into a bunny, but he's wearing _lederhosen_. When he opens his mouth, he just starts to laugh.

Behind Louis is a massive gingerbread house, smoke scented richly of roasting flesh and fat puffing from its white-frosted chimney.

“You!” Louis shouts, pointing an outraged finger at him.

Harry’s sorry, he really is, he can’t imagine how scary that probably was for Louis, if he noticed he was being turned into a bunny, but he can’t stop laughing. They’re fine. They’re both fine. Neither of them are dead, and they’re wearing lederhosen in front of a gingerbread house.

"I'm sorry," Harry splurts, "I had to -- "

"Fuck you!" Louis shouts again, and then he's gone, running off into the thick trees.

“Louis! Wait!” Harry yells, scrambling up to his feet, almost slipping on a pile of pebbles as he crashes through the forest to follow Louis.

"Stop following me! I fucking hate you!"

That's the last thing Harry hears before the blackness swallows them up again and he's upside-down, topsy-turvy.

Harry’s not sure if he’s imagination, or if his fall’s more turbulent this time, whirling him about a bit more harshly until the vortex spits him out into - a library?

"Oof," he grunts as his bum hits a barely-padded chair none too softly. Is... the _universe_ mad at him, too?

Harry tries to clock his surroundings quickly, looking for Louis, but he seems nowhere around. There’s a stack of books in front of Harry and a calendar open to today’s date. _Tutoring, 3pm, Louis_ it says.

At least he's still here, in the world.

It feels better to know that.

When he taps the phone next to his books, it lights up and tells him it’s 2:56. Presumably he’s here waiting for Louis then.

His head hurts. When Harry reaches up to rub at his temples, he bumps into the plastic frame of a pair of glasses. The lenses are Coke-bottle thick when he takes them off, and his head immediately stops hurting, although now he can't quite see.

Great. This world’s Harry has vision problems. Lovely.

Groaning to himself Harry slips the glasses back on, not wanting to risk missing Louis just because he literally can’t see him. He’s got to explain what went on in that cursed world, why he couldn’t explain and why he had to-- he didn’t know it’d knock them right out, but surely Louis understands that’s better than being _dead_?

They get a new body with every one of these switches, but Harry doesn’t want to test out if that extends to being literally reborn.

He moves to run a comforting finger through his fringe, but this-Harry apparently also bought stock in a gel company, because his hair is shellacqued into place.

Curiously Harry picks up the phone, checking his reflection in the dark screen before quickly setting it back down. What. On. Earth.

He's got a sleeveless jumper on. And _slacks_.

He's a _nerd_. This is _nerd world_.

Harry goes to pinch the bridge of his nose and bumps into his glasses again, making him groan a little.

Just then, the library doors open, and Harry looks up, eyes locking on Louis’ form immediately.

Is it strange, he wonders briefly, that he recognises Louis so easily whatever he looks like?

He's got another hoodie, this time with a university logo on the breast, and he's wearing football shorts, socks, and even kneepads. He's got cleats tied together by the laces strung over one shoulder.

As soon as Harry's eyes meet his, Harry begins to stand, to form his mouth around the word _Louis_ \--

"Nope," Louis says. Turns on his heel. Bangs his way back out through the library's double-doors.

“Wait!” Harry calls again, leaving his books and everything lying on the desk. It probably looks a lot more desperate than someone waiting to tutor someone should, but Harry really can’t care about that right now. He can’t let Louis keep getting away!

He gets one glimpse of a green quad and ivory brick buildings before they melt like sand.

“Fuck!” Harry yells into the void - or thinks he does, anyway. His throat feels cold and he can hear his voice, but it sounds lost amidst all the other sounds, the chaos he’s hurtling through again, far too soon, until a different world assembles around him.

This time, the fall is longer. The universe is definitely punishing him, pushing him through bubbles of light before snatching them away again before he can catch any balance. The dark is darker. The thunderous volume of the crack and split of worlds carving away from the whole like glaciers calving icebergs into the sea seems even louder.

The first time this happened Harry was afraid because he didn’t understand what was happening, but this time Harry’s afraid because he has a vague idea of what is happening and he-- what if he really is being punished? What if the next world he lands in is one where he’s being held prisoner, or tortured, or--?

What if he's never spit back out?

What if this is the only place that he can be, without Louis?

Nowhere?

The thought grips him coldly around the heart and throat, heartbeat picking up even as he feels like it’s being squeezed, and throat closing around words he’s not sure he could speak if he wanted to.

He was _helping_. He did the right thing.

Didn't he?

It’s not like he had much of a choice!

The void spits him out again, back into a different world.

Great.

He's back in an office.

Lonely, and alone. Again.

He checks his hand and grins darkly when he doesn’t find a ring.

Immaculately white shirt cuffs peek out just enough from the dove grey suit he’s wearing, the material soft and pristine under his fingers when he strokes them down over an arm. The tie he’s wearing is slim and mint green. The office is spacious and sleek, clear lines, and lots of glass. It looks straight out of a catalogue. Harry probably looks it too. Designed. Impersonal. The biggest thematic difference to the last office Harry found himself in is that the award plaques on the shelf aren't made out to Harry Styles. They're to honour one Louis Tomlinson.

_Louis._

Harry almost wants to laugh. Isn't it amazing how the universes keep spitting him back out either close to or on his way to Louis? Louis is doing his very best to keep Harry away but it seems the powers that be are on Harry's side this time. If Harry is here in Louis’ office - without Louis, at that - it must mean they’ve met before in this life. Maybe they’re even close! Coworkers, or friends, or-- something.

Louis’ll have to listen. Harry will explain what happened and that he came up with the best solution he could and Louis will understand. Right? Right. Surely he’s got to get that being a bunny has to be better than being dead. And Harry was going to turn him back once they got away!

Running an agitated hand through his hair, Harry realises that this-Harry, while not keeping it gelled into oblivion, has cut it short. Like, really short. Harry wrinkles his nose automatically and tries to squash the frustration that’s bubbling in his chest.

He doesn’t want this life. He doesn’t want this hair cut. He probably doesn’t want this job, whatever it is. He wants none of the things that have happened so far, he just... he just wants to go home. He wants to talk to Louis and not play this weird cross-universe game of tag anymore.

Another sigh later, the door swings open and Louis steps into the office.

Harry whirls around at the noise and Louis looks-- the most different Harry’s ever seen him. His hair is short too, and there’s a bit of grey creeping in at his sides that makes Harry wonder about his own hair. Louis’ suit is tailored and fits him like the proverbial glove, highlighting all the best places of him.

Though with the look he’s wearing, it’s more of a gauntlet than a glove.

“Oh,” he says, anger and disappointment dripping from his voice and making Harry want to shy back, but keeps himself firmly rooted to the spot. “You _are_ here.”

Louis lets the door fall closed behind himself and walks over to the desk, dropping a stack of folders onto it like he’s not just borrowing this life, this body, but has done it a hundred times before. It’s such a strange disconnect, to see Louis like this when just moments ago he was a football player at some university. He looks so different.

“Yes, I am,” Harry says, planting his feet and squaring his shoulders. He feels a bit ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to just let Louis get away this time.

“Well, you can leave,” Louis says. “I don’t want to see your face -- any version of your face.”

“You can’t just make me leave,” Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes.

Louis arches one immaculately plucked eyebrow.

“Yes, I can, actually,” Louis says. “I just walked here from some sort of fancy schmancy meeting, but you know what I noticed right outside this fancy office with my name on it? A desk. With your name on it. Right where my assistant would sit. So I can’t just ask you to leave, I can _fire_ you and have you escorted from the building if you refuse.”

Heat and cold chase each other up and down Harry’s spine at Louis’ tone, fingertips icy, and heartbeat suddenly racing.

“You-- you would do that?” Harry asks. He can’t believe Louis would actually...

“Leave,” is all Louis replies. His fingers are curled into fists at his side, but he’s standing proud and still. Harry knows, even though they’re not stood that close, that he’s taller than Louis, but right now he doesn’t feel it.

“Louis, please, I just want to talk--” he tries again.

Louis cuts him off.

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say. Now leave, or I will _make_ you.”

“You would take this me’s job from him, just because--”

“It’s your choice, Harry! Take some time off, if you worry so much about this _job_ , but get out of my sight.”

Louis’ voice grows louder towards the end, so much so that Harry’s relatively certain people outside of this office have heard. His cheeks feel like they’re glowing, throat tight and eyes stinging with angry tears. This isn’t _fair_ \--

Abruptly, Harry ducks his head and whirls around on his heels. He never makes it to the office door, whisked away into the vast nothingness in between worlds. There isn’t anything there but brief glimpses of light and the sounds of doors; always doors, opening and closing with the promise of lives Harry never wanted or asked for.

When Harry next lands, it’s on something soft, and a bit springy. A mattress. A bed covered entirely underneath a quilt made of greens and greys, run through with the occasional silver. It looks expensive. Harry runs a hand over it, feeling the texture of the different types of fabric, and finds himself smiling. This is already better than the office--

Harry sighs and runs a hand over his face, before carefully reaching up for his hair. He has to smile a bit at finding that this-Harry keeps it almost exactly the same way Harry himself does. Looking around for a mirror, Harry notices that most of the room - which seems to be a dormitory of some kind - is decorated in the same kind of colour scheme as his quilt; greens and greys and silver, dark wooden four poster beds and large tapestries and old looking maps hanging on the walls. Even the almost churchy looking pointed-at-the-top windows have a greenish tint to them. And beyond them -- wait.

Harry starts, then gets up from the bed to move closer to the windows.

Are those... fish?! Outside the _window_?!

A large shadow passes by, making Harry step back from the glass instinctively, followed by a swarm of smaller-- yep. Fish. Those are definitely fish. There are fish outside this window.

Is Harry in Atlantis or something?!

This whole thing just keeps getting more and more absurd.

Harry checks his hands for webbing and pats at his neck, but finds no gills. Okay, so. Human, at least. Probably.

Turning back to the room, Harry casts another glance about, and then down at the clothes he’s wearing. He hasn’t really paid attention before, what with the _fish outside the window_. He’s obviously wearing some sort of school uniform - dark grey slacks and a shirt and tie, but he’s got some sort of black bathrobe like thing on over all that with some sort of crest over the left side of his chest. He pulls at the fabric over his chest, trying to make out a bit more detail on the crest. The “P” next to it, he assumes, stands for prefect. Nice to know this-Harry’s an overachiever. There’s a stylised H in the middle of the crest, surrounded by a lion, a snake, a badger and an ea--

Holy shit.

No.

No way.

This can’t be--

The snake flicks its tongue teasingly in the lion’s face. The lion paws at it, but gently.

Right. A moving crest on black robes. There are fish outside the window.

Harry pats himself down and stares at the twig-like rod of wood he had tucked away in his uniform.

A wand. Harry has a wand. He’s sure that’s what it is, he can feel the magic tingling all the way up his arm.

This is Hogwarts. What else could it be? Harry is a wizard, and he’s at Hogwarts. This has _got_ to be the universe’s idea of a joke. As if figure skating and spying weren’t hard enough, how is Harry supposed to be able to do magic? Being able to feel it is one thing, but performing it? Just like that?

\-- wait. Green and silver bedspread? And tie? Fish outside the window? Harry’s in _Slytherin_?

Okay, no, not the priority. There was always obvious bias in how the houses were presented, but... if they’re in the actual Potter timeline, Harry doesn’t want to be in Slytherin, does he.

He hurries over to the armoire beside the bed he landed on, flinging its doors open. Half of it is clothes, both more sets of uniforms, and some clothes he’d find in his own closet back home, jeans, and tshirts, and jumpers, the other half stacked with books, rolls and rolls of parchment, ink, and honest to god quills.

Pulling out one of the rolls of parchment randomly and rolling it open shows his own handwriting, though neater than he is back home. Harry could never write in such straight lines on blank paper. Scanning a bit further up, he finds a date. May 18th, 2009. So, assuming his birthday hasn’t changed, Harry’s fifteen then. That’s okay. Harry did okay at fifteen. He doesn’t necessarily want to repeat it, but aside from the whole magic thing, at least fifteen’s familiar.

Before Harry can worry too much about what to do from here on - go look for Louis? - another boy bursts into the dorm.

“Styles! There you are! Hufflepuff are blocking our practice spot again, I need you to go sort it out with Tomlinson. He knows we can only do Thursdays because of Mathis’ remedial charms,” the boy says.

Even through the shock of the boy’s sudden appearance and demand, Harry almost snorts. Of course this universe is leading him right into Louis’ arms, by now that really shouldn’t be surprising.

Not ‘into his arms’ like-- not-- that’s not what Harry meant!

“Styles?” the boy says, looking at Harry like he’s definitely wondering why he’s just staring at him blankly instead of doing what he’s just been asked.

“Right! Sorry, yes, I’ll get right on that,” Harry says, and rolls up the piece of parchment - transfiguration notes, another glance at it tells him - before shoving it back into the armoire.

“Thanks,” the boy says, shoulders dropping, and his entire demeanor turning a bit friendlier. “I think I saw him in the library just a bit ago.”

Harry nods his thanks, closing the armoire, wondering if there’s some sort of key, or spell he’s supposed to lock it with.

“Don’t you need the schedule?” the boy asks, forehead wrinkled in confusion when Harry looks over at him.

Harry forces a laugh. “Right. That would probably be good,” he says.

The boy laughs. “Sometimes you’re such an airhead, Styles, I have no idea how you make top five of our year every year.”

Harry shrugs as though it were a mystery to him as well. It is, after all. Not that Harry’s a bad student at home, but being among the top students requires so much homework to be handed in on time, and everything. Occasionally Harry just cannot be bothered, and when he knows his grades can take it... He assumes there are less students here, but still. Top five? this-Harry must be doing really well.

“Why don’t you just summon it?” the boy asks as Harry rifles through the rolls of parchment, looking for something that could possibly be the elusive schedule of whatever it is Harry is apparently in charge of scheduling. Before Harry can react beyond a spike of panic at implicitly being asked to perform magic, the boy says, “Accio quidditch schedule”, making a small roll of parchment zoom into his hand, all the other ones tumbling from their precarious pile in Harry’s armoire to the floor.

They both stare down at the mess for a moment.

“Ah,” the boy says. “Now I get why.”

Harry laughs and scoops the rolls up. “It’s okay, I’ll re-sort them later,” he says, stuffing them back into the armoire.

“Sorry,” the boy says sheepishly, holding out the schedule. At least Harry knows it’s for quidditch now.

“It’s alright. No permanent damage done,” Harry says, and then closes the armoire again, taking a step away.

“Well, I’ll go look for Louis, then. Get this sorted,” Harry says.

“Great,” the boy says, and makes for the door again, so Harry awkwardly follows him out. There’s a short corridor that opens up into a common room with a large skylight let into the impressively high ceiling. Or maybe it’s enchanted, Harry doesn’t know. He’s trying hard not to stare, either way.

There are seven of these short corridors leading away from the common room, and one set of large doors - easy enough to work out. Harry tries to subtly memorise which one leads to _his_ dorm room, before striding out through the bigger doors with fake confidence. It’s only once the door falls shut behind him that he remembers the doors have _passwords_ and he has no idea what this one is. Or, for that matter, how to get to the library.

He runs a cold hand through his hair, trying to remember if the exact whereabouts of the library were ever mentioned in the books. Up is probably a good place to start, given that Harry’s currently in the dungeons. None of the staircases he encounters move, thankfully, and finding the Great Hall is simply a matter of following the castle’s layout.

 _Library, library, library,_ Harry keeps repeating in his own head, trying to spark some sort of memory or something that’ll tell him where to go from here. Nothing happens as far as he can tell, so he just... picks a direction. It’s not as if a magical castle is big enough and convoluted enough to get properly lost in or anything, after all...

What feels like two hours later, Harry is still wandering through corridors. He's passed the same painting of a particularly smarmy little witch-child riding a unicorn five times, but she keeps thumbing her nose and him and laughing, so he suspects it’s because she's following him through the portrait frames.

He glares at her for good measure, and considers asking her for help, but he should probably not blow his cover, should he? He’s supposed to be a fifth year here. He should _really_ know where the library is.

"Mr. Styles?" A Scottish accent so thick he can hardly recognize his own name.

When Harry turns, an old woman with neat gray hair cut short and blunt to her chin, moon-shaped glasses, and particularly feline eyes is watching him with amusement from the shiny wooden doorway to a classroom. He can hear fizzing and tinkering from inside like thousands of bits of metal and glass are alive and dancing.

Harry swallows heavily and tries not to look guilty. He’s probably failing, but at least he’s trying? Just... how exactly is he supposed to react to being confronted with Professor McGonagall?

“Professor?” he asks back. He has absolutely no explanation for wandering the halls like he’s doing - well, other than looking for Louis Tomlinson - so he figures it’s probably best to hear what she _thinks_ he’s doing first, so he can deny and deflect. Or something.

"Little Cornelia and her unicorn tell me that you've been stalking her around the castle," she says. She raises an eyebrow, and somehow, it makes her look even more like a cat. She doesn't resemble Dame Maggie Smith at all, really, but they did get the essence right, Harry thinks.

“I-- what? No! I’ve been... wandering. And she kept showing up. If anything, it’s her that’s following me!” Harry insists, and then halts. “Or... maybe I didn’t notice. I wasn’t exactly paying attention to where I was going.”

Well, he was, but he has no idea where that is, so this is as close to the truth as it’s going to get.

"I suspected as much," Professor McGonagall says. "Are you having trouble mediating the Quidditch issue again?"

"Oh, er -- maybe," Harry hedges. "A bit."

She gives a curt ‘hm’, and considers him for a moment.

“I know you’ve declined my help before, but if they’re giving you this much trouble, I _can_ intervene, Mr. Styles,” she says.

“I’m just, er -- looking for Louis Tomlinson actually, Professor,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

He’s really not sure. But if they get bumped out again, at least other Harry and Louis can deal with it.

"Have you tried looking on the pitch?" She points helpfully down a corridor that leads to a massive gray stone door. "Odds are you'll find him covered in mud and ready to track it everywhere once he returns."

A small smile twitches at the corners of Harry’s mouth. It does somehow sound like Louis, this person she’s talking about. And despite her exasperation with The Quidditch Issue, she seems fond of Louis.

“Yes, that-- I probably should have started there, shouldn’t I?” he says.

"Perhaps so, Mr. Styles. You certainly needn't have circled every floor of the castle from your dormitory."

Every floor? Harry really should have paid closer attention to where he was going. He’d have a much better sense of the castle’s layout and his circling wouldn’t have been in vain.

“Well-- yes. Sorry?” he says, feeling a flush creep up his neck.

"It's not a problem, Mr. Styles." She reaches into the pocket of her sumptuous robes and produces a little white packet with a multicolored stamp at the closure. "Take a biscuit with you."

Harry reaches for it possibly a little too hesitantly.

“Thanks, Professor,” he says. “I’ll just go check the pitch then.”

"Good man. Don't let Tomlinson hex that biscuit before you eat it."

When Harry turns back to see whether she's joking, the corridor is empty.

The little girl in the painting overhead blows him a raspberry, and she gallops off on her unicorn.

Harry stares down at the biscuit and wonders if he should just eat it now, or try to offer it to Louis as some sort of peace offering. He really hopes Louis hasn’t tested out if he can do magic yet and found that he can, because he’s somehow sure he _would_ try and hex Harry. He seemed angry enough to last time Harry saw him.

Harry unwraps the biscuit just to busy his hands as he plods down the stone steps of the vast castle.

Hogwarts is _beautiful_. The movies seriously undersold it. Even the books undersold it, and Harry had a very vivid imagination as a small child. He's never seen a forest so green and rolling hills so _rolling_ and the lake, it's more like an ocean, the kind in brochures for all-inclusive Bahamas vacations.

It’s probably something to do with magic, Harry assumes. Or if not then he’s going to Scotland for his next vacation. Either way, he’s glad he gets to be here, at least for a little bit. Cold as the stone walls are to the touch, the castle somehow feels... warm. Like Harry could think of it as ‘home’ if he belonged here, in this world.

It'll be a nice one, he thinks, if they get to stay.

He hopes that Louis doesn't turn him into a slug and they get to stay for at least a while.

He also hopes that he finds the Quidditch pitch without much trouble. He really doesn’t fancy running into another teacher, or Professor McGonagall _again_. How would he explain not having found Louis yet, after all?

As if the castle had heard and taken pity on him - or maybe as if he just got lucky - the steps down lead him out into the open grounds, the Quidditch pitch easily visible, what with it being several dozens of feet up in the air.

"Holy shit," Harry whispers, craning his head back. Quidditch brooms _fly_. In _real life_. They're up _high_ , too, and he can hear a whooping shriek that already sounds familiar. Louis is up there, and Harry may be wrong -- but he doubts it -- but this is Louis' first time on a flying broomstick and probably if he dies at Hogwarts, Harry will end up somewhere awful. Like a lifetime stuck as a crab. And also Louis would be dead, which is sad.

How did he even work out how to do this? Did he just straddle the nearest broom and hope for the best? How _does_ one even straddle a broom without falling off? It’s notoriously difficult for first time flyers, after all!

Harry worries at his bottom lip and, when he feels the biscuit crumble in his clenching hand, remembers he’s still holding on to it and stuffs it in his mouth for something to do. And also to calm his nerves.

It's a very strange flavor. It's a bit like an entire Sunday roast dinner, including a pud, got shoved into a crumbly biscuit.

It's not terrible.

It’s certainly enough to take part of his attention off the fact that Louis is currently looping around far up above his head.

But he’ll have to come down eventually, won’t he? And Harry will still have that schedule thing to work out, and he’ll still have Louis be angry at him for the Working universe, so he swallows the biscuit and makes his way over to the pitch.

"Schedule," Harry mutters, and crumbs of roast-cookie land on the parchment in his hand as he holds it up to see what the fuss is.

It's immediately apparent. Someone, without naming names, has scratched out 'Slytherin' in every timeslot and written 'Hufflepuff' over it in thicker ink.

Isn’t _Gryffindor_ supposed to be the house with the unbreakable rivalry with Slytherin? Aren’t Hufflepuffs supposed to be the cuddly, nice ones? Then again, he’s met Louis. Who is apparently a Hufflepuff, and while he has been nice to Harry, occasionally, like when they were faced with Shakespeare and lead poisoning, he doesn’t strike Harry as particularly cuddly.

And, again, not naming any names, but he can guess who this handwriting belongs to without ever having seen it before.

When they were at university, Louis played footie. And as bunnies, Louis hardly ever stopped moving.

Maybe this-Louis just really, really loved to fly. Harry can picture that quite easily, even if the idea that _human beings are literally flying on broomsticks in real life_ is hard to wrap his head around even as he stares up at it.

It’s probably like Harry’s figure skating - as long as he doesn’t think about it or get startled, it was fine. Harry could never have done any of the things he did, but he... did them anyway. His body did them for him. Louis’ body is probably flying for him, somehow. And, well, there _is_ magic in this world, so Harry should probably just not be surprised by anything.

Fingering the wand tucked away in his robes, Harry idly wonders if, if he’s such a good student, magic will come easily to him. Maybe he’ll be as good at that as Louis is at flying. Even with nothing to compare it to, it’s clear as day that the things Louis does on that broom up there are impressive even to somehow who _does_ have comparable experience.

Harry runs his tongue over his teeth to divest them of roast-biscuit, takes a deep breath, and strides onto the pitch. 

"Oi! Tomlinson!"

Louis’ broom falters for a moment, but then he catches himself, Harry’s heart tripping over panic for a second. It’s already racing when Louis spots him and comes careening down a lot faster than Harry had expected. And directly at Harry. He’s not-- Louis wouldn’t _actually_ crash into him, right?

Harry ducks before he has to find out. The air whooshes over his head, hair ruffling, as Louis' thick black quidditch boots kick out.

“Seriously?!” Harry yells, whipping his head around to see Louis take a sharp turn to come back. “I saved your life that day, you know!”

"I hate being a bunny!" Louis yells, loop-de-looping back into the sky.

The other Hufflepuff flyers, clad in goldenrod yellow, snicker.

Harry is really, really glad they've landed in another universe where that sentence is probably at least kind of applicable.

“You were a bunny for, like, thirty seconds!” Harry yells after him. Seriously, Harry thought this was about Louis finding and being taken from _his family_. If it’s really all about being turned into a _bunny_ , Harry will... probably not do anything, actually.

"I don't care!" Louis yells back. He zings back toward the ground again and tumbles off the broom before it's low enough; he lands on his feet and stalks close enough to Harry to poke him in the chest, hard, as he hisses his next words. "You know goddamn well it's not about being a fucking bunny, although that was no fucking treat. I had my family back, and you were selfish, you prick."

And then he swings a leg over the broomstick and takes off again, flying in concentric circles higher and higher until he's just a speck in the sunlight.

_Selfish._

Harry was _selfish_ when he didn’t know how to handle an _assassination order_ from _the mob_ , and trying to keep everyone he knew alive. Maybe he was a little bit selfish, not wanting to die, and not wanting Mum and Gemma to die, even if they weren’t really his, but how is Louis wanting to be with his family not equally selfish? They’re no more his actual family than Harry’s were.

Harry hasn’t been angry at Louis for his reaction so far, too worried about Louis’ anger, and disoriented by the constant change around them, but _”selfish”_?

"Hey!" He yells into the sky. "Get down here, Tomlinson, or I'll -- McGonagall said she'd deal with you!"

The people in their yellow robes above his head all slow down, and Harry bites down on the smug grin as Louis comes back down, more slowly this time.

“Teacher’s pet much?” he mocks.

"Actual pet much," Harry snipes back, because he can. _Selfish_!

Louis looks taken aback for about a second or two, before he schools his face back into a vague sneer. It’s not a particularly pretty look on him, Harry thinks.

“Look, if you’re ever interested in what actually happened, come find me. Until then, you need to sort out this-Louis’ issues. You can’t just take every single session Slytherin have scheduled,” Harry says, holding out the piece of parchment for Louis to take a look at.

"Why not?" Louis asks, and he sounds like he may actually be confused under all the frustration and pent-up anger. "Aren't they the baddies?"

Harry blinks.

“Er, no? First of all, they’re just kids? And the war is over, anyway, and they’re just really badly misrepresented at home by the books, by the movies even worse, and--” Harry says, completely thrown. Did... did _Louis_ attempt to change the schedule? Not this world’s proper Louis, but the Louis who came with him?

“Oh my god, you’re a complete nerd,” Louis interrupts.

"Everyone knows Harry Potter!" Harry yowls, and again: lucky they're in a world where, still, that is probably true.

Oh, gross. This-Harry is probably named for him. That's awkward.

“Not everyone has these kinds of opinions about it,” Louis snorts. “Emma Watson’s fit though.”

Harry takes a deep breath and tries to get back on track. This is the first place they’ve landed where he has to do something he knows he _can_ do. He can sort this schedule thing out.

“Look. You need to back off Thursday, cause Slytherin need that day, so they’re getting a double slot then, but you can have Monday for it,” he says.

Louis' mouth twitches. "Fine. But if I get turned into a fucking rabbit again, or a newt, I will goddamn kill you. I will Voldemort your arse."

Harry makes a noise that’s half laugh and half sigh.

“You probably don’t even know how. You don’t scare me, Tomlinson,” he says. Who even knows if they’ll be here long enough. Harry only remembers sleeping as a bunny, and that one night the first office time. He’s not sure if he needs sleep the same way as before all this, but he’s suddenly incredibly exhausted.

He yawns broadly and scratches the back of his neck. "I'll talk to the Slytherin team for you. And let McGonagall know not to give you detention. In the Forbidden Forest," he adds, because Louis is an asshole and won't know that isn't how detentions work at Hogwarts.

Louis squints at him like he’s not sure he believes Harry, but doesn’t really want to test it either.

“Fine,” he says curtly, then steps back and gets back on his broom and up in the air without another word.

FIne. If he wants to be that way, Harry’s not going to actually chase him through the air to explain.

He doesn't really like heights anyhow.

On his way back up to the castle, a small kid in a Slytherin-green jumper and sporting a shock of pink hair comes running up to him and tugs on his sleeve. "Harry? I lost my toad again. Can you help me post the parchments around the grounds, please?"

Harry sighs. He just wants to sleep for a thousand lifetimes. But, alas, he is a Prefect at Hogwarts. He always thought that'd be more fun. More things like smuggling dragons than helping first-years plaster the walls of an entire castle with flyers about a lost toad.

A problem Harry hadn’t considered is that there aren’t any tacks on the notice boards. Or anything else. Apparently all the parchment sticks by, well, magic. And Harry has no clue how to do this particular spell.

The pink-haired boy is staring at him expectantly.

“Er, why don’t you try it? You’ve seen me do it often enough,” Harry says.

The kid's face matches its hair. "Last time, I ended up in hospital wing. _Please_ , Harry?"

Harry bites the inside of his cheek briefly, mind racing.

“Okay, then... let’s try it slow. Just show me how you do the spell - but don’t actually do it - and then I’ll do it and we’ll see where you went wrong, okay?” he tries.

The kid sighs heavily and lifts their wand like it's a time bomb.

In a way, Harry supposes, it is.

He feels sorry for the kid, but what else is Harry supposed to do? Probably _he’s_ going to end up in the hospital wing after he attempts this spell. Maybe it’ll make the kid feel better at least.

“So, like this?” the kid says, unsure, moving his wand through the air in a little arc with a sort of swish at the end. “And you say the incantation?”

“Which is?” Harry prompts, trying for patient and helpful, less completely out of his depth.

“Affigo,” the boy mumbles, like he’s scared if he say it too loudly his wand’ll think he means it.

The parchment goes a little gooey, but it does stick to the wall. The painstaking drawing of Leonard the Toad only smudges a bit.

"There you go!" Harry enthuses. He claps the kid on the shoulder. "You got it!"

The kid beams up at him and then throws his arms around Harry’s waist.

“Thank you, Harry!” he says, and then peers up at him. “But can you please do the other ones?”

Harry yawns again, but holds out his hand for a stack of parchments. If he ends the day by gluing himself to the castle wall, well, then at least Louis can sleep happy.

The jerk.

When Harry wakes up the next morning under his green canopy in the dungeon with the skylight that shows not the sky but a lake, he tries not to panic too much. Instead, he puts on his school uniform, hastily looks for a schedule and then packs hopefully all the right books, and surreptitiously follows the other boys to breakfast in the Great Hall.

He scans the room for Louis automatically, and, damn, he’d forgotten about the whole house tables thing. He just sort of wants to go sit by Louis and figure out how the hell they’re going to fake their way through this one, but that would probably just attract too much attention. He has no idea if this-Harry and Louis ever interact beyond the whole Quidditch schedule thing. They’re not in the same year, or the same house, so it’s quite likely they’re not really friends.

Swallowing heavily, he lets one of the other Slytherin boys throw an arm around his shoulders and pull him over to the Slytherin table.

“That Charms essay made me feel thick as troll’s pubes,” he announces, prompting a startled laugh from Harry.

“Laugh it up, Styles, we’re not all charms prodigies around here,” the boy grumbles, but he smiles at Harry, so he figures there’s no actual animosity there. And, great, good to know Harry’s expected to be _excellent_ at this subject he’s never taken in his life. He doesn’t even know what that essay was about, or whether he packed it this morning to hand it in.

“Prodigy’s a bit much...” Harry tries to wave it off.

The boy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure Flitwick only complains about you not being a Ravenclaw every other week because you’re _mediocre_.”

"Er," Harry says, and then tries it out: "He was just fond of Gemma."

"Who wasn't?" asks another Slytherin boy, waggling his eyebrows as he takes the seat across from Harry.

Harry mock glares at the boy, used to it from - apparently every life he has. Good to know that Gemma will apparently turn his mates’ heads no matter where he goes.

Oh, wait -- Gemma! Could he... he could write to her, couldn’t he? Tell her what’s up? She’s believed him before and this _is_ a world where there already is magic, so. ... maybe?

Harry rummages through his rucksack as breakfast grows louder and louder around him. He finds a parchment and a large pink quill that has SELF-INKING SPELLULATOR 4.0 marked in black along the shaft, so at least he doesn't need to worry about learning to fill a nib. He scrawls, _Gemma. Please write back by soonest post. All the love, H_ and folds it in two just in time for a thunder of owls to descend into the Great Hall, wings beating the air into a nearly visible froth.

Harry crosses his fingers under the table and hopes against hope that he has an owl to deliver him something. If he doesn’t, the school has owls, right? That was a thing? Owls the students could just use to send letters to their family? If he’d known it would ever be this vital to him, Harry would have crammed as much Harry Potter trivia into his head as possible.

A large great horned owl with truly magnificent bird-eyebrows descends in front of Harry and hoots softly, nudging his forearm with its talons. He reaches past the huge bird to the platter of toast and selects a discarded crust for it.

“Hey, you,” he says, holding out the crust that the owl snaps for so quickly he jumps a little. Okay. That beak looks... painful, even if the rest of the bird is stunning, honestly. And seems to like Harry, since ... they hoot at Harry again and then bend their head as if waiting to be petted.

"You're not gonna bite me," Harry murmurs as he tentatively strokes the softer-than-soft mottled brown feathers atop its head. "Are you, pretty... genderless bird?"

The boy sat next to him must have heard him, since he snorts and says, “Genderless? Pretty sure Merlin’s a bloke -- which, I know I’ve said this a lot, but that’s a _cheesy_ name.”

The owl ruffles its--his--wings, and Harry snorts. "I think Merlin thinks your name's cheesy."

“Well, my parents gave me no more choice than you gave him,” the boy says.

"Merlin was a great wizard and hero." Harry hands the owl the note, and it looks at him like, _are you kidding me?_. Harry stares back until the owl, he would swear to it, rolls its eyes and sticks out its leg.

Right. That makes sense. Also, Harry should probably untie the letter he’s been brought before he ties another one to the owl’s - Merlin’s - leg.

He teases the ribbon open with the nails of his fingers and then uses it to tie his own rolled up parchment to it.

The owl inclines his head for another petting, and then with a gust of air that displaces all of Harry's messy curls, takes off for the high windows again.

Harry reaches for the rolled up letter with one hand, brushing the crumbs of toast off the fingers of his other hand on the leg of his trousers.

“Harry Potter’s a hero and great wizard too,” the boy next to him say. “So, really, you don’t get to be smug about cheesy names, do you, _Harry_ Styles?”

Damn. He really was named for Harry Potter. "Guess not," Harry says apologetically. He still doesn't know this guy's name or he'd be able to reply. He'll keep fishing somehow, but in the meantime, a mouth stuffed with oatmeal is a sure excuse not to talk.

So much oatmeal.

“So, can I have your charms essay to look at? To understand what the hell Flitwick was on about last week?” the boy asks then.

Harry kind of wants to say no, because maybe he’ll be asked to explain something, but if he says yes, that’ll give him an excuse to check if he’s even packed it. Or _done_ it. What if this-Harry left it for last night to do and instead Harry wandered every floor of the castle?

"Er," Harry says. "Sure... just a second."

He rummages through his bag again. It's as disorganized as his rucksack in the real world, but there is a scroll labeled "charms" somewhere near the bottom, very nearly in a small puddle of something sticky.

Unrolling it, Harry finds it’s both his class notes and the homework essay, so he hands one of them over and scans the other one. If this-Harry’s among the top five of their year, surely his friends must not think it’s too strange for him to go over material for his classes, right?

"Wicked," says the boy. He smiles, and _oh_ he's pretty. Harry sneaks a peek when he writes his name at the top of his own parchment: Thomas Mann.

 _Oh._ Harry thinks. A Slytherin boy whose name is Tom? That must not go over too well yet. He’s probably going by his last name then, the way Harry seems to be.

Tom Mann looks at Harry with a question in his eyes and one raised eyebrow. "I'm not gonna copy the whole thing, Styles. I'll give it back good as new. _I'm_ not the one who gets jam on everything."

Harry sighs deeply. There’s a stain of jam at the very end of the essay. That must be what’s in his bag then. How did that even get in there?

While Tom Mann is copying bits from Harry's essay, Harry rests his head on his hand and stares across the chaos of the Great Hall to where Louis is sitting at the head of the Hufflepuff table like nothing is afoot and he belongs in this world.

Probably that whole drama thing comes in handy in situations like this. If you can be Puck at the drop of a hat, why wouldn’t you be able to be Louis Tomlinson, wizard and Quidditch player?

The boy across from Harry turns around in his seat to follow the line of Harry’s eyes.

“Tomlinson, eh?” he asks, teasing glint in his eyes.

"What?" Harry blinks. "Yeah, I mean, no. I mean, he's a Hufflepuff, so..."

"Since when do you care?" asks Not-Tom. He stirs his oatmeal viciously, like its wronged him. "Didn't bother you that Gryffindor George was a Gryffindor."

 _Gryffindor George._ Harry’s whole brain feels like it stumbles to a halt over that information. Does that mean... did this-Harry date a boy in Gryffindor called George? Openly enough that his friends tease him about it?

While he's spluttering, a girl with long blonde hair leans across Oatmeal Boy to take an apple from a golden bowl. "To be fair, Gryffindor George is bloody gorgeous. Are we _sure_ he's not a Veela?"

“Nah, if he were, we’d all be head over heels for him, wouldn’t we,” Tom Mann says, without looking up from where he’s putting his charms essay together.

The blonde girl sighs. “He’s _so_ pretty though.”

"Er," Harry says. His face must be as red as the banner above Gryffindor's table by now. "I suppose, yeah. And anyway, I don't -- _like_ Tomlinson. I think he's an arse."

“You’re definitely thinking _something_ about his arse,” the blonde girl says with a wink and takes a crunchy bite of her apple, chewing smugly. Harry’s not sure how anyone manages that move in real life without looking like a complete idiot, but he supposes magic might be at play, here in Hogwarts. And anway - _is_ this real life? Harry really doesn’t know anymore.

It felt real when he was turning Louis into a bunny to save his life.

The stakes felt real, anyway. He was so _sure_ that he needed to keep Louis safe.

But all it did was make Louis angry with him. Again.

“Aw, come on, little Styles, no need to look quite so forlorn,” the girl says, reaching over the table to pat at his hand. “You’re a catch.”

Harry can't help smiling at that, although it's no help at all with his current situation. It doesn't matter if he's a catch; Louis doesn't care about that. And neither does Harry, of course. He doesn't want to _date Louis_ , he just wants Louis to stop being angry with him so they can find a way back to reality.

At least this time they’ve stayed in this world for longer than the couple minutes it takes Louis to shout at Harry and leave - or fire him. Maybe if they actually get to talk to each other they can somehow figure this whole thing out. Of course that requires Louis to want to _talk to_ Harry, which doesn’t seem like it’s going to be likely any time soon.

“Thanks,” he says, so as not to appear too forlorn, or like he’s ignoring the nice girl whose name he doesn’t know.

“Something moving catches Harry’s attention, and when he focuses, it’s Louis gesticulating wildly and laughing with the Hufflepuffs around him like they actually are old friends. If it weren’t for yesterday’s confrontation, Harry might be inclined to think he’s alone in this world this time. How does Louis fit in here so easily?

“He _is_ cute,” the blond girl says, turning back around in her seat to face Harry again, after seeing what took his attention away. “You could do worse.”

“Thanks,” Harry repeats, with a weak smile.

It’s true, he supposes. Not that-- that Louis is cute, though Harry supposes he is, blue eyes just as startling in every single life they’ve fallen into and his smile probably just as bright, even if Harry hasn’t seen it that much, but that’s not the point. If Harry has to be hurtled through all of these different worlds, there are worse people to be doing it alongside than Louis, he figures. Even with the anger and everything, Harry could definitely be doing worse.

“You’re going be doing worse if we don’t get to Charms on time,” Tom Mann pipes up, rolling up his own parchment, and handing Harry’s back over. “You done with that ridiculous amount of oatmeal?”

Harry jabs his spoon into the cold porridge. "I guess, yeah. Er, do -- "

A house-elf appears at his elbow as though by... well, magic, and whisks away the bowl. Harry hopes that at least all of his leftover food will be eaten by the elves and owls and Hagrid's creatures, if Hagrid is still here. If he's real, too.

“Right. Let’s go then,” Tom Mann grins. Harry falls into step beside him, the blond girl looping her arm through Harry’s on his other side.

“Double Charms with the Ravens. Why are we doing this again?” she asks.

“OWLs, job prospects, a secure future...” Tom Mann lists, trailing off with a sarcastic shrug like he couldn’t care less.

The girl laughs and then rolls her eyes.

“Like you’re not going to go into Quidditch, Mann,” she says.

Tom Mann doesn't even bother to look sheepish as he grins. "Well, someone's gotta help deflate Tomlinson's massive head, don't they? If I'm the one to beat him to a pulp every year, then lucky me."

“What if you end up on the same team?” Harry asks, mouth moving faster than his brain. He sort of wants to pretend he’s not here, but he figures his friends’ll think it’s weird if he doesn’t talk at all, so this is probably good.

“Don’t ruin the fantasy, Styles,” Tom Mann whines.

Harry smirks. "So you're saying you fantasize about Tomlinson?"

“About _crushing him at Quidditch_ ,” Tom Mann clarifies. “I’m not looking to get in with your boy, don’t worry.”

Harry just lifts his chin.

It might not be terrible if this Tom Mann did appeal to Louis. Maybe it would keep Louis happy enough that they could stick in one place for a while.

Not that Harry really has any idea whether Louis goes for boys or girls, or both. Or neither, he supposes. But if not Tom Mann and his pretty cheekbones, or the blonde on Harry’s arm, maybe Quidditch’ll be enough. He seemed to enjoy himself quite a bit yesterday.

Charms is... interesting. Harry could quite get used to the feeling of magic bubbling from inside a well beneath his heart, he thinks, and coursing warm down his arm into the channel of the wand. It's very different from how it had felt in that other world, when he touched Louis with a single bare finger and the magic punched him hard in the gut as Louis transformed in his hand. This is softer. Nicer.

And fucking _hard_.

There’s so much to consider! The wand movements need to be precise, especially as long as you’re not familiar with a spell, as Professor Flitwick keeps reminding them all. The incantations feel cumbersome in Harry’s mouth, all that Latin not something he’s used to. Surely the language isn’t that important to magic. Surely it’s more about the intention behind the spell, the one Flitwick keeps telling them to channel through their wands, to not force but guide.

But the back of his head still knows that _it's leviOsa, not levioSA!_ , so he tries. And he tries. And he tries.

And his wand just keeps pissing a sad little shower of purple sparks.

“Mate, are you alright? It’s just revision,” Tom Mann whispers from next to him, the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5_ hovering before him easily, even while he’s glancing over at Harry with a worried crease between his eyebrows.

Harry runs hot and cold. They’re going to find out he doesn’t belong here so soon if he doesn’t get it together somehow.

“Yeah, just... feeling a bit weird, I s’pose,” he mumbles and takes a deep breath.

Right. This is a _year one spell_. There’s really not too much to it. Harry’s been watching all the other students - some of them, he noted with a certain amount of relief, don’t seem to be faring much better than he is - so he knows what to do. A swish, a flick, and a word. Sure, he may be the only one who hasn’t been able to make something float, but not all of the others have been able to keep it that way, and a lot of them are looking quite pinched, actually.

“Just... relax. Are you already stressing about exams? Get that out of your head. This is a piece of cake to you, remember? It’s just Charms,” Tom Mann says with an encouraging smile, and Harry dutifully smiles back, though it feels rather wobbly on his face.

Right. If this is easy for this-Harry, then Harry’s just going to... try and take a step back. Let him take the wheel, so to say. It might not be muscle memory in the same way that the skating or the abseiling was, but there’s magic involved, for Heaven’s sake. Surely that’s got to count for something.

Harry lifts his wand, looks down at his own spellbook steadily and tries again.

A swish.

A flick.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

It’s different, this time. There’s not just a trickle of magic in his arm, not even the rush like when he tried to push too hard, but a steady line. Like a cable connecting his will and the tip of his wand, and through that, like some sort of magnetic field or something, he can tell where it extends, grabs hold of the book he’s still calmly looking at and makes it float up. It hovers right next to Tom Mann’s, and Harry turns to look at him with a wide grin.

Tom Mann shakes his head.

“There you go,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You were beginning to freak me out. Harry Styles struggling in Charms. I was about to drag you down to Madam Pomfrey.”

“No need,” Harry grins, elated. He can still feel the string of magic lightly dangling the book in the air.

“Very well done, all,” Professor Flitwick says. “I see you still remember your basics. It’s important to remember what you’re building on, now that you’re moving on to your OWLs, and, for some of you, beyond that.”

He winks at Harry when he says it, so Harry figures he didn’t see his first few colossally horrific attempts at the spell. Probably he assumed he wasn’t going to have to watch out for Harry, and focussed more on other students who he knew were going to need help.

“Now, partner up and see if you can get through the rest of the Grade 1 spells,” Flitwick says.

“Trio?” the blond girl from breakfast asks, turning towards Harry, who’s carefully setting his book back down, and Tom.

“Sure,” Tom says. “I’ll go grab us a copy. Unless either of you brought your Grade 1 books?”

Harry and the girl both shake their heads, so Tom, as well as about half the class, gets up to grab a textbook from one of the shelves at the back of the room.

“You want to go first, Astra?” Tom asks, holding the book out to the blond girl.

 _Astra_. Finally a name for the face.

By the end of the session, Astra has a lock of bright blue hair that Harry had meant to be a detangling spell, but she just squealed and hugged him, so it must be alright in the grand scheme of things. At least no one lost an eye or an ear or a nose of newt.

And they got halfway through the Grade 2 book, so Harry’s basically catching up on magical education on the fast track. Sure, all the theory that goes along with it doesn’t really make all that much sense to him, but he can memorise it just as well.

Next on their timetable is a double session of Potions, which Harry has mixed feelings about. On the one hand, it seems like a scary subject, but Harry is probably biased because he’s only ever seen it through Harry Potter’s eyes. It seems like it should be the easiest one to fake. It’s basically magical cooking, isn’t it? Harry can cook. Well, he can follow a recipe.

He used to be a baker. Kind of. This should be fine.

An hour later, as the thick green smoke clears, it is not fine.

Apparently, potion brewing is not just fancy magical cooking. Harry’s sure he followed the recipe, but... his potion definitely isn’t emitting a soft silvery vapour, smelling of lavender and thyme. And how would it? There’s not even any lavender in it! This Draught of Peace is giving Harry anything but.

"Mr. Styles," says the professor, a timid-looking and very tiny young witch with a sleek cap of black curls, as she fans green smoke out of the classroom windows, "Are you attempting to sabotage us all, or merely yourself?"

Harry feels his cheeks flush, and lowers his eyes.

“Neither, Professor. Sorry,” he says. Mumbles, really.

The Professor sighs and then comes over to talk to him more privately.

“I know you struggle with Potions sometimes, Mr. Styles, but you’re a bright boy. You don’t normally make mistakes like today. You got ahead of yourself. Your porcupine quills aren’t well-powdered _or_ shaken enough,” she says.

Harry’s just glad everyone else has gone back to their potions. Tom and Astra are sending him pitying glances every now and then, but they have their own potions to worry about.

“Maybe you should consider working with someone, from your class or year six, to help better your understanding. OWLs are tough, even if you don’t plan on going on with a subject afterwards.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry mumbles. “I will.”

Harry’s never had a tutor before, but there is a first time for everything, and in the grand scheme of all this universe jumping, a tutor really isn’t anything to write home about, is it.

Speaking of, he hopes Gemma’s going to get back to him soon. He should probably also read that letter he got this morning.

She pats his arm once and then moves over to one of the Hufflepuff tables, grabbing a girl’s hand and sighing exasperatedly.

“Unicorn horn first, Ms. Brett,” the Professor says.

The girl nods and sets the bowl of what is not unicorn horn down again. Well, at least Harry knows he won’t be asking _her_ for help.

He bites the inside of his cheek, picks up his mortar and pestle, and sets to grinding his porcupine quills finer.

Stupid porcupines. Hedgehog spikes would be so much easier to manage.

In the end, Harry doesn’t make it all the way through the potion a second time before their time is up, but at least it definitely turned purple when it was supposed to. The professor puts stasis spells on all their potions, so they can finish them off during the next lesson, and then lets them go.

“I’m gonna go to the library before lunch,” Astra announces. “What about you two?”

“I’ll tag along,” Harry says. For one, he’ll finally know where the library is, for another, he can surreptitiously revise and catch up on Charms, at least. He did a lot better at Charms than Potions.

“I’ve got to go grab my Transfiguration stuff for after lunch, but I’ll meet you there?” Tom Mann says.

“Sure,” Astra says, hooking her arm through Harry’s again and steering him off.

“He’s definitely just going to nap,” she says, once they’re out of earshot.

Harry both feels like he could sleep for a thousand years and like he's so energized he may never sleep again. "But there's so much to do!"

“Not everyone’s an overachiever like you, Mr. Prefect,” Astra laughs.

“Yeah? Well, you’re the one who suggested going to the library in the first place,” Harry points out.

Astra inclines her head. There's a slight point to her ears that makes Harry wonder whether she's truly 100% human -- and if not, what else she could be. How much has changed since the Harry Potter years? How true were those stories, anyway?

“Well, it’s supposed to be lonely at the top. I’m just making sure you’ll have company,” she says, patting his arm with her hand. The blue streak he accidentally magicked into her hair earlier looks particularly striking against her sparkly white grin.

She fills the walk to the library with idle chatter about their Charms lesson and the upcoming Transfiguration lessons in the afternoon, and Harry just tries to follow along as well as he can, absorb as much knowledge as he can, and hum-s and ah-s in the hopefully right places.

“You’re a bit weird today,” she observes finally, holding open the door to the library for him.

“Sorry. I feel a bit weird,” he says, stepping through it and waiting to see where it is she’ll go. She doesn’t link their arms again, but strides forward purposefully, so Harry supposes she’s got a set destination in mind. In the end, she walks past countless rows of shelves and tables set up for studying students until she finds one she likes.

Maybe this is like, their table, or something. The one the three of them always study at.

“I’m gonna go over Charms,” Harry announces once they’ve sat down and she’s pulled out some parchment with complicated looking squiggles on it. Whatever that subject is, Harry hopes he’s not taking it.

She hums, but stares at her parchment, so Harry gets back up and browses the bookshelves for _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_. He figures he’ll pick back up where he stopped - not practicing the spells, perhaps, but memorising them at least.

Astra, as it turns out, was correct in assuming that Tom was not going to be joining them in the library at all, as the next time they see him is at lunch, where he’s already sitting at the Slytherin table, wearing a sunny grin and mussed up hair like he did indeed just wake up from a nap.

“You’re incorrigible,” Astra says, but there’s fondness clearly hidden behind her eyeroll. “You know, this is why you’re constantly copying Styles’ Charms essays.”

“Why mess with a good thing,” Tom shrugs, pouring them all glasses of a thick, bright orange liquid.

Pumpkin juice, Harry supposes. Right. That’s... going to be interesting. He’s really not one for vegetable juices, back home.

The tables serve themselves, mounds of food appearing on silver and golden platters and bowls. It seems like a lot more food than even an entire school of students could eat.

Then again, Harry never quite understood how many students were meant to be at Hogwarts anyhow. How did Harry Potter only have eight students in his year if there were a thousand students at the school? Was Gryffindor just tiny and terrible? Or wonderful and elite? Was J.K. Rowling terrible at maths?

The Great Hall seems to be filled with more than eight students a year, at least. There were definitely a lot more than just eight students in both of Harry’s classes, and those were just half his year, what with only two houses sharing classes at a time.

Before Harry can get too deep into wondering about the mysteries of the Harry Potter book and movie franchise, and how it relates to this reality, Astra’s poking her bony elbow into his ribs.

“What?” Harry asks, turning to her. Has she been talking to him?

“Tomlinson’s looking over at you,” she says with a smug smile.

Harry tries not to look over his shoulder. He straightens his back, reaches forward for what he hopes is a chicken leg and some potatoes, and fills his goblet with a brave amount of pumpkin juice.

And _then_ he deigns to look over his shoulder. So there! That will show Louis! He, too, can be uncaring and nonchalant.

Louis doesn’t really do anything - doesn’t wave or even just smile - just catches Harry’s eye and holds it for a moment, before turning back to his own lunch. Harry doesn’t know what to make of that, really, but he’s glad that Louis’s still here, and apparently, at least in some form, interested in whether Harry’s still here.

Harry is back in his dormitory when the tiny Scops owl finds him, a note in its pouch.

_Mr. Styles,_

_It has come to my attention that Professor Cornelia is concerned about your upcoming Potions OWL. Prof. Flitwick is likewise despairing of Mr. Tomlinson's Charms aptitude. Perhaps this arrangement may provide you with service in your ongoing inter-House quarrel._

_Cheers,_

_Headmistress_

_P.S. Please give Po here an owl treat before sending her back. She is still in training._

Harry scrambles for an owl treat, Po hooting at him gently when he strokes her soft feathers before she takes off again.

Harry’s a lot more exhausted than he thought he would be, the afternoon lessons of Transfiguration and Ancient Runes a lot more taxing than he could have predicted even after the less than stellar morning. At least both were theory lessons, so there wasn’t much Harry could both up as long as he kept his head down and his mouth shut.

Right. Well, at least this gives him the perfect excuse to talk to Louis in private. And Louis is more or less going to have to agree, the Headmistress is practically making them do this. It’s a bit curious perhaps that as a year five student Harry is supposed to be able to help Louis with Charms in year seven, but he supposes this is where that whole thing about Harry being really good at Charms comes in.

Running a hand down his face he scoots back up against the headboard of his bed and picks his Charms notes back up. He really has a lot of catching up to do, if he’s going to fake his way through this.

It’s how he ends up spending the rest of the evening, reading through his own notes and textbooks, claiming a headache when Tom asks him whether he wants to tag along down to the Quidditch pitch, and pulling the green curtains shut around his four poster bed. There’s light streaming in from outside, but they must be enchanted somehow, because Harry can’t see into them when he steps outside them to go have a wee. It’s a blessing, really, making it far easier to disguise that he’s practicing spells he should be a lot better at than he is.

Tomorrow at breakfast, he decides when he’s stuffing all his schoolwork back into the armoire and his backpack, respectively. He’s just going to approach Louis tomorrow morning right away. Get it out of the way. He’ll just talk to him about the letter Professor McGonagall sent and Louis will have to agree to meet him. They can try and sort everything else out then.

That’s if he wakes up in this bed, and not another one.

He falls asleep practically the moment he puts his head down on the pillow, and wakes, to his surprise, in the same bed. Tom’s still snoring in the one next to his, but two of the other boys are already scrabbling out of bed as well. Harry nods at them sleepily, and sets about getting washed and dressed. It’s a good thing no one seems to be much of a morning person, so he doesn’t have to make awkward small talk with anyone until Tom wakes up and ruffles up Harry’s hair after he’s spent a painstaking eight minutes trying to get it to cooperate.

“Hey!” Harry complains, but Tom only laughs at him and dances out of reach.

“Come one, Styles. Stop primping, I’m hungry!” he calls.

“Alright, alright,” Harry mumbles, grabbing his backpack and following Tom to breakfast for the second time in as many days. He wonders if they’re going to stay here for long enough that it’ll feel like routine. He wonders if he can get Louis to talk to him for long enough that they can figure out how to get home.

“Looking for someone?” Tom asks when he notices Harry’s gaze sweeping over the Great Hall.

“Yeah, er, Tomlinson, actually,” Harry says, and, at Tom’s grin, hastens to add, “Professor McGonagall sent me an owl last night, suggesting we help each other out in Charms and Potions, respectively.”

“With his NEWTs coming up?” Tom asks, surprised. “Though I suppose he _is_ really good. They don’t hand out those Junior Potioneer certificates to just anyone, I guess.”

Harry nods along like this isn’t news to him.

Maybe the universe is just handing Louis an easy way to poison Harry. Although if he hasn't outright killed him yet, then maybe he won't anyway -- eventually Harry will make him see sense that the choice really was between Bunny and Death and that really, Bunny was the better option.

“Well, there he is,” Tom says, nodding towards the door where Louis and a bunch of other people are strolling towards the Hufflepuff table. “Good luck.”

Harry nods absently and makes his way over, heart beating in his throat.

“Hi... Tomlinson,” he says, unsure about how this-Harry would address this-Louis.

“Styles,” Louis acknowledges, one of his friends seeming thoroughly amused by their exchange already.

“You got Headmistress McGonagall’s letter too, I assume?” Harry says.

Louis' jaw works once. "I did. And the owl pooped on my bed."

Harry tries to bite down on his grin, but it’s a lost cause already.

“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with that,” he says, slightly exasperated.

“Well, for all I know you’re some sort of owl whisperer.”

“For all you know she went to see you first. Or we got different owls, simultaneously,” Harry points out. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m free today during sixth and seventh period, if you want to meet up?”

Louis heaves an almighty sigh. "I suppose I can make sure you don't flunk out of wizard school, Styles."

This time it’s definitely not a grin Harry’s biting down on, though he fares much better with it.

“That’s very generous of you, oh Exalted One,” he says.

Alright. Maybe he’s not doing _that_ much better.

“Library?” Harry asks.

"Fine," Louis says. And Harry distinctly hears him mutter, _I can find a fucking library. I can_ as they part.

The second day goes about the same as the first, and Harry only has to wait about twenty minutes for Louis to show up at the library during sixth period. He announces his arrival by setting his books down at the table opposite Harry with far too much noise, considering they’re in a library, and then leans back in the chair with an almighty sigh.

“Bad day?” Harry asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Bad week,” Louis says. “Weeks? God, how long have we been doing this? I can’t even remember.”

"I don't know if time counts," Harry says. "Or like... I don't think the actual number of days matters. I wonder if we're missing back home, though."

Louis cards a hand through his hair, looking more than just slightly agitated.

“I really hope not. I don’t want my mum to worry,” he says, looking stubbornly over Harry’s left shoulder.

“Yeah, me too,” Harry says. “But listen, we’ve been here longer than we’ve been anywhere, right? There has to be a reason. Maybe if we can figure that out, then we can figure out how to get back from there, or something.”

"All I can figure is that you like it here and haven't figured out how to screw things up for me yet," Louis says. He unrolls a parchment, frowns, and rolls it back up.

The anger flares so sudden and bright in Harry’s gut, that he doesn’t even feel his nails bite into his palms as he balls his hands to fists.

“Right, because when I was dropped in the middle of the Times Square and then found out the mafia was threatening my mum and sister to make me kill people for them, my top priority was definitely screwing things up for you,” Harry spits.

Louis blinks. "Is that what that world was for you?"

“Yes. My mum didn’t want to touch me, my sister didn’t know how to look at me without seeing a murderer, and I was ordered to turn you into a movie ticket to kill you. So forgive me for thinking _bunny_ was the better option,” Harry says, voice tight.

Louis juts out his chin, and Harry can tell that he isn't going to give up -- or believe him -- that easily. "Well, you could have _told_ me that. I was just getting ice cream for my little sisters!"

“I would have told you that later! There was someone there watching us to make sure I really did... kill you,” he says, almost whispering the last two words. “I panicked. I figured I could turn you back from a bunny once we’d gotten away and then explain. I didn’t know it’d send us somewhere else.”

Louis' brow is still creased between the eyes. "And what, you were gonna stick me in a cage and make me eat more pellets until you stopped being watched?"

“Only, like, for a bit. I would’ve given them a decoy movie ticket so they thought I’d done it,” Harry says, consciously unfurling his fingers and stretching them out. “I think that Harry had done it before.”

Louis unrolls parchments one after another until he finds whatever it is he's looking for. "Or he's a serial killer."

Harry flinches, dropping his gaze down onto the tabletop. It’s... a possibility, he supposes. Logically, he knows it might be true. Maybe that version of him has killed several people on orders of the mafia, but he just can’t, _can’t_ truly imagine it. How could there be a world where Harry walks around killing people? How could he ever be okay with that?

"I would never kill anyone, no matter what universe we're in," Harry swears.

"Then why are you in the evil House?" Louis presses. "I have seen six of the films."

“It’s not the _evil_ House,” Harry says, pressure tightening in his chest. Is that what Louis thinks of him now? That he’d go around killing people for his own gain? He supposed Harry thought Louis wanted to kill him as well, so maybe that makes them even, but that was before they’d _met_.

“It’s always been there. Do you think three of the greatest witches and wizards would get together to found a school and go ‘Oh, we’re still missing something - I know, it’s _evil_ ’?” he goes on. “That makes no sense!”

"I'm not a wizard; I dunno!" Louis yells back. The library itself shushes them, the hissing reproach echoing through the very walls and shelves of ancient, dusty books.

Harry hunches his shoulders as though making himself smaller would somehow make them more quiet.

“I don’t know how to prove to you that I don’t want to hurt you, or take you away from anything. I just want to go home. Same as you,” he says.

"You didn't even ring your mum," Louis accuses.

"I've written to my sister since getting here," Harry says. "She's the smartest person I know, and in the -- the last world, she knew it wasn't really... me. So maybe she can help here, too."

“You told someone?” Louis asks. “And nothing... happened?”

Harry shrugs.

“No. It took some convincing and I think it helped that magic was already a thing in that world, but it is here too, so-- maybe she knows something. Maybe this library knows something. We’ve never stayed still this long without being bunnies, we have to take this chance,” he says, voice tripping up a bit by the end.

He’s still not sure why exactly that is, why they’re here when they went through the last worlds faster than he could blink, almost, but he’s got the sneaking suspicion that it’s something to do with Louis not telling him to get lost.

Louis hesitates. "What if... do you go to that dark in-between place when you're switching worlds, too?"

Harry nods.

"What if we get stuck there?" Louis' voice is unusually small.

Harry bites down on his lip.

“I don’t know. But we’re always alone there, right? So maybe if we...” he says, and then breaks off, letting his gaze fall to the side. “Maybe if we stick together we won’t.”

Harry’s not sure that makes any sense, but he knows even that place would be less terrifying with Louis than it is without him, if they did get stuck there.

Louis' cheek tics. "That's almost as cheesy as being a bunny."

Harry feels his cheeks grow hot and hopes Louis can’t tell.

“Well, you’re the one who’s done it twice, so you would know,” he says.

Louis scowls and shoves the parchment in his hands across the table. "Here, a potion. Learn this potion."

Harry shoots him an incredulous look that Louis simply shrugs off.

“What? I thought we were waiting for your sister to get back to you. What else are we gonna do?”

"I guess you're right," Harry says. "So, Junior Potioneer, how do you know when you've er, crushed your porcupine quills enough?"

Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Well, if you can’t tell, you’re definitely doing it wrong.”

“Shut up and explain, please?” Harry says.

Louis grins at him in a way that makes it very obvious that he could say something about the paradox in Harry’s request, but won’t, and sets about doing just that. By the end of seventh period, when Harry hurries off to Astronomy, and Louis leaves for Transfiguration, Harry actually knows more about potions than he had yesterday. It’s not much of a feat, since he started out with zero, but since Louis did as well, when they arrived, Harry’s still impressed. Louis’s a good teacher, actually, once he decides not to keep bringing up bunnies.

Unless, of course, it was all bullshit.

Harry has a sneaking suspicion that Louis is a very accomplished bullshitter.

Professor Cornelia gives him an approving nod the next time his potion goes only slightly wrong, so he figures all the time spent in the library with Louis, and all the time spent with people who aren’t really his friends, but treat him like he is and tease him about all his time spent with Louis, is actually paying off. They’ve spent most of their free time of the past week in the library, poring over books and parchments, trying to piece together the last five and seven, respectively, years of their magical education. Luckily, the actual magic part of that whole problem is making it easier than it has any right to be. It’s like the magic wants them to know it.

They’ve spent very little time discussing their actual predicament, why they keep jumping from one world to the next, why they’re still in this one, and how to get home, until Harry receives word from Gemma a week after they’ve arrived. She’d gotten back to him after his first short note only a day after he’d sent it, and he’d spent the whole evening after his first tutoring session with Louis crafting a letter to explain everything to her, hoping she was going to believe him here as well.

Harry lets the owl whose delivered his letter sit on his shoulder and ruffle through his curls with its sharp beak as he reads the response.

_Hello to you too! Things are fine here, since you so kindly asked. Soz for delay; Magical Maladies research took me to Uagadou for few days. You alright?_

Magical Maladies research. Harry grins to himself. Clearly Harry’s not the only overachiever in the family.

_I’m not so sure what to make of that tale you’re spinning, to be honest. Did you get knocked in the head by an errant bludger again?_

_Anyway, there’s not much magical theory about alternate universes. Time travel always ends up with no noticeable difference in the timeline for anyone but the traveller, so alternate realities are mostly dismissed. Most wizards and witches consider them brain teasers and theoretically interesting, but no attempt has been made to find out whether they exist or whether, if they do, you can travel from one of them to another. None with any significant success, at least, as far as I know._

_It mostly raises interesting questions about the nature of one’s character - how much of you is you, innately? So that that would also be you in any other world? And how much of you is just a product of your surroundings - upbringing, culture and such?_

_The Muggles have this theory where there’s an alternate universe for every decision you make, I think. They’re a bit weird, those Muggles, but they’re onto a lot with all their science things so maybe they’re onto something here too!_

_Sorry I can’t help you out more; maybe you’ll find something in _Magical Theory, Transfiguration, and Gamp’s Law_ by Meredith Merlock. And if not it’s still a good read and you should be concentrating on your OWLs, little brother!_

_Love,  
Gem_

Harry sighs and rolls the parchment back up, stuffing it into his backpack along with all his other stuff. Since he’s started his tutoring/re-learning all of this-Harry’s Hogwarts education with Louis, his backpack seems to only have gotten fuller and heavier. He wishes he knew those spells Hermione does in the last book, the ones that make her tiny bag hold everything and also not be heavy. Why haven’t they learned that spell yet? That would be a useful one.

Merlin takes the owl treat Harry holds out for him, swallowing it down in two big gulps, and then opens up his wings to soar back up into the rafters of the owlery, settling in next to a snowy white one Harry’s seen him cosying up with a few times now. Harry sort of wants to stay up here in the strangely chaotic quiet, with the ruffling wings and hooting, but Louis will be done with his afternoon lessons block soon, and they’re set to meet up again, so he turns away and makes his way to the library.

It’s fascinating, he thinks as he passes a picture of Cornelia and her unicorn, how quickly one gets used to new surroundings. Only a week ago he was stumbling through the corridors like a lost child, and now he can find his way to almost everywhere without much fuss. Unless the moving staircases decide to let him out on a corridor he hasn’t been before, or doesn’t use often. Then he’s still pretty screwed.

By the time he reaches the library, there's still a bit of time left before Louis is supposed to show up, so Harry goes to look for the book Gemma recommended. Maybe there is something in there that will make all of this seem a little less absurd. Harry's not sure he believes it will, entirely, but it's still better than no plan at all, so he might as well.

Fifteen minutes later, Louis is late, so Harry buries his nose in the book, wishing fervently there were a ctrl + f function he could use. He's sure there has to be a spell for it, but he doesn't know it, so fat load of good that does him. The table of contents isn't much help, but Harry has no idea how long Louis will keep him waiting, so he flips to a halfway promising-looking chapter and starts reading.

One and a half pages into the chapter, he has to wonder how much of a genius this world’s Harry is, that Gemma thinks recommending this book to him will actually be any kind of help. The lack of any sort of magical education, and this-Harry seems to be a pureblood so it’s not just five years at Hogwarts, it’s an entire life, probably doesn’t help, but Harry doesn’t even know what half of these words mean! He hasn’t seen them in any textbook or heard any teacher mention them either! It basically makes the book entirely useless to him. Even if there’s something in here about parallel universes, Harry isn’t going to find it. Or understand it.

He’ll be stuck here. Or somewhere else. Or never anywhere, which might actually be worse! Having Louis as a companion everywhere would definitely not be the worst, but, god, Louis. Louis wants to go home so badly. Harry does too, but Louis seems to think of Harry mostly as an additional burden, not someone to share it with. He wishes there was a way to change that, to show Louis that he’s not the one doing this, that he wants to go home just as much, that he wants to help Louis, be there for him. But they’ve never met in real life and giving Louis details of his won't convince him of anything. Harry could’ve made them all up, after all.

This whole hurtling from universe to universe thing hasn’t left Harry unshaken either. They’ve been here longer than Harry remembers being anywhere (though he mostly doesn’t remember how long they were bunnies), but that doesn’t mean that every time he stumbles, or hears a door slam shut, or sees a particularly bright light, there’s not a swoop in his stomach that expects to be whisked away and spat out somewhere else entirely. And always, with that thought, there’s the worry that next time he’ll fall into a world without Louis, one where he has to figure everything out himself, where there’s no one to find relief in, no one to work towards and alongside while he’s looking for a way to work towards home.

Harry wants to be that person for Louis as well. He wants Louis to be relieved Harry is with him, not angry, or burdened, and that’s not just his general need to be liked talking. Louis’ smile, Louis’ energy, though rarely directed at Harry, make Harry smile, give him energy.

Give him butterflies.

Maybe, Harry thinks, blush crawling up his cheeks as he’s staring through the open book in front of him, maybe he’s not the same thing to Louis that Louis is to him because he... because he has a crush on Louis.

Harry latches onto people quickly. He likes most people, and he’s a sucker for a pretty smile and a good pair of... eyes. Louis might be lacking in the _eyes_ department, but his actual eyes, the ones with which he looks at Harry like he’s trying to work him out, those are stunning. Harry’s not sure he’s ever seen eyes so blue in real life. So really, even though the thought curls heavily in his belly, and makes heat run up the back of his neck, that’s what this is.

And Harry’s not completely surprised. He’s always known there are things he can’t say around Will and the others, hasn’t he? Things that make his heart race when he says them around mum and Gemma. On some level Harry’s known for a while that he’s... not gay, but definitely not completely straight either.

Still, sitting here in the bleeding Hogwarts library, realising he has a crush on a boy he’s travelling through parallel universes with, is not something Harry could’ve ever seen coming. It’s a bit of an inconvenience, maybe, because Louis doesn’t seem to like Harry all that much, least of all like him in that way, but Harry’ll make it work. He’ll just... he’ll make it work. He’s had unrequited crushes before. It’s not the end of the world. Any world.

“Sorry I’m late, Madam-- are you okay?” Louis says, dropping his bags onto the chair opposite Harry heavily, making him jump and blink out of his stupor.

“What? Yeah. Just... thinking,” Harry says, uncurling his fingers from where they’re clutching at the book far too tightly.

“Did you find something?” Louis asks, voice a lot more hushed, but almost excited as well.

Harry swallows heavily, shaking his head. “No, sorry. My sister said there’s not a lot of study about that sort of thing, and she recommended this book, but... I don’t understand any of it.”

“Oh,” Louis says, the excitement dimming in his face.

“I’m sorry,” Harry offers again. It’s the only thing he can offer, isn’t it.

Louis looks up at him and then smiles slowly. “No, sorry; I know. It’s not your fault,” he says.

The jolt of surprise must show on Harry’s face, because Louis laughs awkwardly, and fiddles with his hair as he says, “I’m sorry about the way I acted. None of this was you, I think. Well. I can either trust you and we can try and figure this out together, or I can be suspicious, and... two heads are better than one, right?”

“Right,” Harry says automatically, not sure how to respond.

Louis smiles, and Harry’s insides do a complicated twisty thing he doesn’t know how to categorise either.

“It’s fine. You tried. It’s not like I had any plan whatsoever,” Louis says.

Harry nods a little bit, because that is true, but he wasn’t expecting this sudden turn around.

“Though it seems like this-Louis sure does. You know why I’m late? Because Madam Hooch wanted to let me know there were scouts at the last game and they’ll be coming back for the final match of the year, and I’m pretty much guaranteed a position with... some team. I can’t remember. Some sort of animal, I think,” Louis says, slumping back against the chair and running an agitated hand through his already tousled hair. Now that he knows-knows, Harry’s not sure how he ever missed the eruption of butterflies in his stomach.

“Wow,” Harry says.

“Yeah. And like, what if we stay here long enough that I ruin that for this-Louis? Or what if I take it, but he wanted to be a potioneer?” Louis frets.

“You’d take it? If we stay?” Harry asks. He hasn’t considered what’d happen if they stayed past graduation. Louis would be... gone.

“Yeah,” Louis says, eyes bright. “There’s nothing like flying.”

Harry hums vaguely. He’s never been on a broom. Tom insinuated that this-Harry isn’t much of a flyer and Harry doesn’t really want to test it.

“I mean, I’d write, of course. We’d still figure this out somehow,” Louis says, eyes flitting over Harry’s face like he’s looking for something.

Harry ducks his head for a moment, before he’s got his smile vaguely under control. The turnaround in Louis’ attitude from hostile to neutral and occasionally friendly to outright sweet is almost making him dizzy.

“Of course,” Harry repeats. “Obviously you can’t just stay in school.”

“Unless I fail my exams,” Louis says.

Harry furrows his brow. “You won’t,” he says. From everything he’s seen Louis’s a good student. Not top five of his year, but definitely not bottom five either.

Louis smiles weakly. “Thanks. So, speaking of, shall we do more revision?”

They do.

By the time Harry crawls into his green and silver bed that night, the lake casting an eerie but calming glow into the room, Harry’s certain Louis will pass his exams. He’ll go play Quidditch, and he’ll write for a bit, but he’ll be busy and he’ll have better things to do with his time.

Harry huffs and rolls over onto his other side, punching his pillow into a better shape, hoping for sleep to take him before he can get too maudlin.

Instead, the world grabs him, or the world between worlds, dragging him from his bed and that life into the vastness of possibilities, chucking him in -- a different bed.


	3. Chapter 3

“I know you weren’t happy about moving, Harry, and you met that boy, but I thought you made friends at school?” Mum says.

“Mum,” Harry chokes out, eyes stinging with tears at the sight of her face and the sound of her voice, accent familiar. She even wears the same perfume. _Mum._

Her face falls. “Is it that bad?” she asks.

This conversation that he’s been dropped in the middle of, Harry knows, does not belong to him. No matter how familiar Mum is, this isn’t his world. They haven’t moved, and Harry doesn’t have any of these posters up on his walls. He doesn’t wear button ups for fun either, but judging by the open closet door behind Mum, this Harry does.

“No,” he assures her, clearing his throat and trying again. “No, it’s not that bad. I just... miss it sometimes.”

It seems vague enough.

“Oh, of course you do. I do too. But we’ll make a lovely life here as well, Robin, you, and I,” Mum says.

Harry swallows, and nods, Gemma’s absence in that sentence burning bright in his lungs.

“Okay. Try and get some sleep, love. You’ve school tomorrow,” Mum says, ruffling his hair like she does, and kissing him on the crown of his head, like she does.

Harry smiles, hoping it comes out less wobbly than he feels.

The moment Mum closes the door behind her, he scrambles out of bed, looking for signs of Gemma. A photo, a letter, her name in a handed down book - anything. She can’t-- what if they moved because--

Before Harry can finish the thought a photo pinned to a corkboard filled with concert tickets, photos, and tube tickets from London catches his eye - Gemma with her arm slung over Harry’s shoulder, still taller than him and both of them grinning brightly. It has to be old, because a glimpse in the mirror tells him he’s about the same age as at home, but it’s there. So how does he--

Texts! Harry turns on his own axis, scanning the room for his phone, finally grabbing it from where it’s half hidden under his duvet. His last text from Gemma was a whatsapp message two days ago. That probably means she’s fine, even if she’s telling him she’s not sure when she’ll have access to the internet again. Scrolling back up through their recent messages, he gathers she’s on a gap year. In South America.

With his heart beating considerably slower, Harry is suddenly overcome by a huge yawn, the clock on his phone telling him it’s close to midnight. He supposes he really should try and get some sleep. He’ll look for Louis tomorrow. Maybe he’s one of the new friends Harry is supposed to have made.

Eyelids heavy, Harry turns out the lights and climbs into bed again, rolling to his side and snuggling into the cool pillow. If he’s still holding on to his phone, that’s between him and the darkness. Only a few moments later, he’s out like a light.

 

“If you want, I can drop you off at school today?” Mum offers over breakfast the next morning, the look of a mother used to her teenage son being wary of public association with parents on her face.

Harry smiles at her. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks,” he says.

Back home he might’ve had a twinge of wanting to be cool, but now he just wants to look at her for as long as possible. Also, he has no idea where he is, or where the school is. For all he knows, even though so far everything seems strangely... normal, exactly like home, once he goes outside the sky’ll be orange. Or the cars fly. Or something. Harry’s getting really good at expecting the unexpected and rolling with the punches.

Mum seems like she wants to say something else, but in the end she just smiles and goes back to her breakfast, so Harry does the same. There isn’t a school uniform in his closet, but most of what this Harry wears would fit the bill anyway. It’s not quite as bad as the shellacked hair and awful sweater vest he remembers wearing in the university library, but it takes Harry far too long to find something to keep him warm should he need it that isn’t a blazer. The purple bow tie with the white polka dots he admittedly puts on voluntarily. It’s not something Harry would've ever even just looked at twice back home, but it seems... fun. And since this Harry seems to be all out of t-shirts, judging by the laundry basket and half empty closet, he has to go with a button up shirt anyway.

“We need to go, darling, or we’ll be late!” Mum calls from downstairs.

Harry glances at his reflection for a last time, grabbing the bag of school books from the desk (thankfully, there was a schedule, and even though Harry’s definitely not in year 12 at home, at least he’s heard of these subjects before), and bounds down the stairs with nerves twisting in his stomach.

If he’s in year 12 that probably means Louis’s not in school anymore. Which means Harry has no idea where he is, or how to find him. So much for that idea that these universes are somehow putting them together. It’s not that Harry really believes that, it’s not that bad of a crush, but... well, nothing else seems to be constant.

On the drive to school Mum mostly chats about things that don’t require much input from Harry, so he can thankfully muddle his way through it with vague comments and the occasional hummed interjection to show he’s still listening. The school itself looks like any other school when Harry makes his way across the courtyard, which somehow only serves to make Harry more nervous. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Instead of the demons crawling out of the ground or something, a girl with blonde hair, the tips of it blending in with her pink jacket, loops her arm through his and greets him with an excited, “Hiya, Harry!”

Harry smiles back automatically. “Hey,” he says.

“I see your first day hasn’t scared you off,” she teases.

It’s only the second day of school. Thank god. That means Harry doesn’t have to worry about homework quite yet. Probably.

“Nope. Let’s see how the second day fares,” he says, making her laugh. She’s very pretty when she does, her eyes almost as blue as Louis’.

Harry lets her steer him to their classroom, where they’re greeted by three more girls with pink jackets. One of them has her back turned to the door when they walk in, and the looping cursive “Pink Ladies” stitched into the back of the jacket somehow feels like Harry should know what that means, but he’s caught up in a flurry of giggles, hair, and trying valiantly not to stare at -- Jesminda’s boobs, before he can try to work it out. Instead he hangs on every word they say, even though it’s mostly gossip about people he can’t place, hoping to catch their names. If it’s his second day at a new school and four hot girls have decided to befriend him, Harry’s going to make sure he knows their names. And somehow he gets the feeling that _Jesminda_ isn’t actually one of them.

By lunch Harry knows it isn’t. It’s Jesy. And the other three are Jade, who’s wearing a bowtie in her wavy blue hair, Leigh-Anne, who looks like a princess and is actually a bit of a klutz, and Perrie, the blonde who saved him in the morning. Harry has no idea what this Harry did yesterday to make them take him under their wing, and he’s a little jealous.

Harry’s just trying to work up the nerve to insert himself into the conversation somehow when a sudden explosion of noise pulls his, and pretty much everyone else’s, focus. The source seems to be a group of boys all wearing black leather jackets oddly reminiscent of Harry’s new friends’ own uniform halfway across the courtyard. Their hair is all puffed up in a sort of half fifties half hipster kind of hairstyle, and they’re all hanging across each other’s shoulders and laughing in some sort of weird tangle of boy limbs that Harry can’t quite work out. He’s about to turn back to the girls, Jesy next to him scoffing and rolling her eyes at the boys for some reason, when the tangle of boys loosens and Harry catches a glimpse of the boy at the centre, laughter bright and blue eyes brighter.

_Louis._

The rush of relief at having found him here is so immediate and heavy that it takes him a moment to realise he said that out loud, like some sort of hapless romance heroine. Great.

“It’s your second day here and you’re already on first name basis with Tomlinson?” Jade asks, eyes wide with surprise, somehow managing to seem both disapproving and impressed when Harry looks at her.

“Er,” Harry says. “I, um--”

“Oh my god, is he The Boy? Your summer romance?” Perrie asks, eyes honest to god sparkling.

Harry swallows. Does this Harry share everything with anyone who asks?

“He is, isn’t he!” Perrie says, triumph on her face when Harry doesn’t refute the claim immediately. How exactly is he supposed to explain how he actually knows Louis though?!

“Louis Tomlinson is the ‘really sweet guy’ you met on holiday?” Leigh-Anne asks, sceptical eyebrow raised.

“It’d explain why he didn’t call when he said he would,” Jesy says, snorting derisively before she winces and glances over at Harry.

“Sorry,” she adds, “he’s just not usually...”

Harry still can’t keep his eyes from straying back to Louis, and this time Louis catches his gaze, his own eyes widening with recognition. He jerks his head in the direction of the school a bit. Harry hopes he can see the brief nod he gives.

“It’s okay,” he says, and starts gathering his things, clambering up from the table. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“I really am sorry!” Jesy says, blustering a bit.

Harry waves her off. “It’s really okay! I just need a wee before class. I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says.

“Yeah, sure,” Leigh-Anne says, Perrie nodding next to her.

Harry doesn’t see Louis when he makes his way across the courtyard, but he’s only taken a few steps into the school building when Louis grabs his wrist and drags him around a corner before dropping his arm again, sure Harry will follow. Harry has no idea how to manoeuvre this building by himself yet, but Louis leads him through corridors like he’s been walking them for years, finally coming to a halt in a seemingly deserted staircase.

“I think I’m a tea bird,” is the first thing he says when he whirls around to face Harry with bright eyes.

“A what?” Harry asks, completely thrown.

Louis blinks out of his excitement, completely baffled for a moment. “A tea bird? _Grease?_ Come on, Harold!” he says.

Grease? Like the film? Well, after Hogwarts Harry supposes this isn’t really all that strange.

“Oh. All I know about that is it involves John Travolta and a car,” he says, shrugging apologetically.

For some reason, Louis seems a little... unsettled by this news, hand going to mess with his fringe, and eyes slipping away from Harry.

“Right. Um. Well... the girls you were with, do they happen to call themselves The Pink Ladies?” Louis asks.

“Er, yeah. Why?”

“And do you know how long you’ve been at this school? This-you, I mean?”

“It’s my second day. We just moved here,” Harry says, brow furrowed. Does it matter? It’s not like hey followed the plot of the Harry Potter books either - thank god.

“Right,” Louis says again and-- is that red on his cheeks? Is Louis blushing?

“My best guess is that we’re actually characters from the movie,” he says. “I, um, I just did this musical at school, so I know the plot a bit...”

Harry stores the bit of information away, and nods for Louis to go on.

“I think you’re, um, Olivia Newton-John’s character, then. Sandy. The female lead,” Louis says, still refusing to look at Harry.

Harry scrunches up his nose a bit, but there’s nothing to it. “And you?” he asks.

“Probably John Travolta; Danny,” Louis says. “The male lead.”

“Oh, great!” Harry says. So if they do have to follow some pre-set narrative, at least this means there are plenty excuses for them to interact.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry, they’re in love,” Louis huffs.

Harry freezes, blush blooming hotly on his cheeks. Right. Grease. It’s a musical rom com. Harry did know that.

“Oh,” he says. Suddenly Louis’ fidgeting makes sense.

“So, how does the story go?” Harry asks, trying to brush it off.

Louis huffs a sigh like he’s terribly inconvenienced and fiddles with the tips of his fringe again for a moment before he brushes it to the side.

“They meet over the summer before the movie and have a summer romance but he’s a bit of an arse and she’s a bit of a prude, so when they meet again he ignores her at first. Shenanigans, they end up together,” Louis says.

Harry nods. So Louis _is_ the boy he met over the summer before the move. Good to know at least.

“It takes them almost all year in the film though, so I don’t think we’ll be here that long. Just... so you know.”

“So I’ll just pretend I’m hung up about you till we get out of here,” Harry shrugs with more bravado than he’s feeling.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Louis quips, and immediately looks like he’d like to take it back.

Does he-- does Louis--?

“Cause I’m pretty fit,” Louis says and winks, but there’s something in his face he can’t quite wrangle to fall in line with the rest of his teasing grin. “Got a leather jacket and everything.”

Harry makes himself chuckle, but he’s pretty sure it falls flat. Oh god, Louis knows. He definitely knows.

“I’m already swooning,” he says nonetheless, laying the sarcasm on thicker than is probably polite.

Louis’ arm jerks in an aborted move like he was maybe reaching out for Harry, but then he stuffs his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket instead.

“Keep it up then,” he says, his cheeks now also just a little flushed.

Harry swallows harshly, nods, and tries his hardest not to read anything into it. This isn’t... Louis’s not speaking in code, or double meanings. He means the pretense. If he knows about Harry’s crush, he’s definitely not encouraging it.

Before Harry has to come up with anything else to say, or can try to find a way to sink into the floor and never come back up after all, the bell rings, signalling the end of their lunch break.

“Well,” Harry says, righting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and shifting his weight. It feels remarkably like a delayed flight response. “See you around, then.”

Louis nods and takes a step back. “Yeah, see you,” he says.

Harry somehow manages to make his way to biology in time. The only person in the class he knows is Jade and there’s a moment where he’s not sure she wants him to sit down by her side, but then she grins at him and moves her bag off the seat next to her.

“Saved you a seat,” she says when he sits down, and he smiles back gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says.

She shrugs it off. “I’m just glad I’ve finally got company. The others don’t care much for biology,” she says.

Harry grins and pulls out his textbook and a notepad. He has always liked biology, but he’s not sure he can fake being a year 12 student. Judging by Jade’s multicoloured textmarkers and pens, she takes it all rather seriously.

"Is it really Tomlinson, then? Your summer love?" she asks, curiosity shining in her eyes.

"Oh, um, yeah," Harry says, the tips of his ears and cheeks running hot again.

Jade hums in acknowledgement, but before she can get around to saying anything the bell rings again and a woman with her hair in a tight bun walks in. Almost the entire cheers straightens up to pay attention which Harry takes to mean she's either very strict or very interesting. Either way, the time for chatting is over.

The following morning, it's not Perrie who finds him before school, instead all four of them seem to have been waiting for Harry in the courtyard. Harry didn't think he'd ever be this happy to be at school, especially one in a different universe, one where he doesn't belong, but at least he's not supposed to fit in seamlessly here. As happy as he is to see his mum again, every second with her is a reminder that she is not really his mum, and he's not really her Harry. Being at home is a minefield of missteps waiting to happen and it's honestly stressing Hang out. So seeing these four vaguely familiar faces who don't expect him to be anything other than the new boy they befriended two days ago is actually a relief. Harry half hopes Louis is doing better, half hopes he isn't, just so he might finally get that none of these versions of their families are actually theirs , and while Harry's glad Mum, Robin, and Gemma are doing well in this life doesn't mean he thinks it's worth it to seek them out if they're not already here. It's just setting them up for heartbreak, really.

"Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday,” Jesy says after they've all said their hellos, falling in step beside Harry.

"It's okay," Harry says.

"It's just that Tomlinson's got a bit of a reputation, and it's not for being sweet to little choir boys like yourself," she says.

"Really, it's okay. I was just surprised to see him," Harry waves her off.

"Well, I just wanted to say if I was wrong about him and he's actually nice, and you want to try it on with him again, I'll support you of course."

"But if you're right you retain the right to say I told you so?” Harry asks, grinning.

Jesy laughs and slaps his shoulder.

"I'm glad you get me, Styles," she says.

"And if you do want to try it again with Tomlinson, there's the customary back to school party on Friday; he'll definitely be there. You should come with us,” Leigh-Anne adds.

"Yeah, put on something a bit less... school appropriate and show him what he's missing,” Perrie chimes in.

That, Harry supposes, definitely sounds like the plot of a movie.

"Alright, I'll ask my mum.”

Turns out this Harry's mum is a lot easier to convince to let Harry go to parties (or maybe she just hopes it'll put an end to Harry's "mood"), so Harry spends Friday afternoon going through his closet, trying to find something to wear. "Less school appropriate" doesn't seem he be this-Harry's strong point, but Harry finds a pair of black skinny jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Harry kind of likes it. The girls, though they complain that he should have accessorised, approve as well.

Harry spends the first two hours of the party nipping at drinks, dancing with the girls, and pretending he's not constantly looking for Louis' face in the sea of people.

"Tommo's told me all about you, you know,” a boy with a black leather jacket says when he's fetching another round of drinks.

"Has he?” Harry asks, trying for nonchalant.

The boy grins at him and bump, their shoulders together.

"Yeah. I reckon he's quite gone for you, but he can be a bit... well. Just don't be too hard on him, yeah?” the boy says.

It's this version of Louis this boy is talking about of course, but the one Harry has been travelling with can be a bit "... well" as well, so Harry smiles.

"I'll try," he says. And then, because this universe gives him the perfect cover, he adds, "He seems worth it."

The boy's attention catches on something over Harry's shoulder then, but instead of leaving, he opens his arm as if in expectation of a hug, letting Louis step into his body.

"Don't believe anything this one says. Stan's a compulsive liar,” Louis says with a grin.

The boy who's been talking to Harry - Stan, apparently - shoves Louis in the side with a laugh.

"Fuck off, I've been talking you up to your lad here," he says, clearly aiming to embarrass Louis.

"He's been all praise,” Harry says, earning an approving grin from Stan.

"I'm sure he has," Louis mumbles.

“Well, I'll leave you to it then. Don't screw up my hard work, Tommo,” Stan says. He doesn't wait for goodbyes or anything like that, just pulls his arm from around Louis and slips away.

In his wake, what Harry and Louis are left with is awkward silence. Louis is doing that thing where he messes with his fringe again, and Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans so he won't end up copying him. He can't quite stop himself from shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Listen," Louis suddenly says. "This-me told his best friend about you, apparently, and he won't leave me alone until this happens, so please go on a date with me tomorrow. If we're still here."

Louis has his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, but Harry can see the tense set of his shoulders. Harry's not sure why he'd be nervous asking him on a fake date for their alter egos’ sake. He's already told Harry something like this could happen. Harry's not likely to mistake it for Louis actually asking him on a date.

"Yeah, sure," he says. As horrible as Harry feels for thinking it, it'll probably be nice to get out of the house for a bit.

"Okay, thanks," Louis says, shoulders sagging in relief.

"We should, um, probably exchange numbers?” Harry suggests.

"Oh, yeah. Good thinking,” Louis says, and pulls out his phone, handing it over to Harry.

Harry dutifully puts in his number, and then saves Louis when he calls him. It's all a bit stilted and perfunctory, but, well, it's not like they're actually going on a date.

"Shall I, um, come pick you up?” Louis asks. “We're in my home town, and so far everything seems pretty much the same as at home.”

"Oh. That'd be nice. Thanks," Harry says. That'll save him having to google bus routes at least.

"Right. Okay. I actually have to be home soon, so...” Louis says, trying not to fidget again. Harry can't work him out.

"Sure. Text me details tomorrow then? We could go see what kind of stuff's in cinemas here,” Harry suggests.

Louis grins and then pulls one hand out of its pocket rather forcefully, grabbing Harry's elbow.

"Let's do that," he says, and then leans in to kiss Harry on the cheek.

The press of his lips is warm, and gentle like he doesn't want to startle Harry. Harry can't say he's entirely un-startled, but they're supposed to have been together all summer. It'd probably be strange for them to not be physical with each other at all.

Louis looks a little unsure when he pulls away again, so Harry smiles at him and grabs his hand in a quick squeeze.

"See you tomorrow then,” Harry says.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow,” Louis echoes.

The girls, it turns out, had been watching the entire exchange, swarming around Harry the moment Louis stepped away. True to their word, they're full of encouragement and advice, and it takes Harry a good ten or twenty minutes to convince them that he's fully capable of dressing himself, thankyouverymuch. lt's not until he reminds them that he's been dating Louis all summer, and getting dressed all by himself for the entire duration of it that they back off.

On Saturday afternoon, Harry almost wishes he had taken them up on their offer of coming over and helping out. Not because he has any trouble getting dressed, but because he's been sitting on the front steps for almost twenty minutes now, and he's sure they'd have wanted to wait until Louis came to pick him up.

Louis, who is currently ten minutes late. It probably doesn't mean anything. He probably missed the bus. Or maybe this version of his hometown isn't exactly how Louis knows it after all. It's fine. Nothing to worry about.

Five minutes later Harry decides to send a text. Just to make sure Louis is alright and not bleeding out in an alley somewhere.

Louis doesn't answer.

Another ten minutes later Harry is suddenly whisked away from the doorstep, flung back into the space between worlds. The black seems blacker somehow, cold and creeping over Harry's skin almost tangibly while dread curls tight in Harry's gut. Louis has to be okay. Harry really doesn't think he can do this by himself.

He's spat out into a warm, sunny, spacious kitchen, the oven humming quietly and filling the room with the homey scent of cake baking. Harry stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the counter, eyes catching on the gold band on his ring finger. This Harry is married.

Harry blinks down at it for a moment, entranced by the idea of having found someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, before remembering the last world and-- _Louis_.

There's a phone on the counter, and though it's unfamiliar, the pass code Harry types in works, and it doesn't take him more than a few heartbeats to pull up the browser on it. He's googling for Louis Tomlinson before he's really thought it through, just wanting to find some proof that he exists in this world, that Harry didn't come here alone, that he's _fine_.

It takes him a moment to realise that when his screen fills with a picture of Louis' blue eyes surrounded by laugh lines and stubble, that's not google images, but an incoming call.

"Louis?” he asks picking up, not bothering with niceties.

"Harry? Is that you?” The voice is a bit gruffer, but not so much that Harry wouldn't still recognise it. That's definitely Louis.

"Yes, it's me,” Harry says, leaning on the kitchen counter.

“What animal were we?” Louis asks.

"Bunnies? Louis, what's--”

"You just sound... different. I thought it might be this-you, not you-you.”

"Oh. Okay,” Harry says. "I landed in a kitchen. Where are you?”

"A car park. There's coordinates for 'home’ in the GPS, so I'll try and get there and call you back, okay?”

"Yeah, okay,” Harry says, looking down at the ring on his hand again. At least Louis won't have to pretend to date him here.

"Okay, I'll talk to you later," Louis says and hangs up halfway through Harry's "bye".

Harry brings his phone down to stare at the screen, almost a bit surprised that it’s actually showing the call ended with how abruptly it did. But! The good part is that this Harry and Louis already know each other, so at least there won’t be any searching for Louis involved. Harry has no idea how to deal with having a spouse, but with any luck, Louis will call him back before the spouse appears, and they’ll be able to come up with some sort of plan.

Harry looks around properly for the first time then, and his gaze snags on the stuff laid out on the kitchen counter. There’s onion, garlic, herbs, tomatoes, and pasta. Harry smiles to himself. That, he can probably manage.

Knowing that this Harry already has a clear path to Louis calms Harry's post-jump anxiety. He doesn't need to run around this spacious house searching for clues about where he is, when he is, because he already knows the important bit.

He and Louis can find each other.

So instead, he sets about making dinner, like this Harry had probably intended to do before... well. Whatever it is that happens when Harry and Louis show up in these other lives. Are they even real? _Is_ there another version of them here? Or does it all just collapse into nothingness when they get whisked away to somewhere else again.

Well, whatever it is, Harry’s going to make dinner regardless.

He fiddles with the iPod in a dock on the counter and finds it full of artists he's never heard of, but that may not mean much. He is older now, he thinks, judging by the distorted reflection he'd checked out in the toaster.

Anyway, when he presses play on a on a playlist aptly titled “cooking up a storm”, he likes the sound of it. There’s a lot of things Harry has never heard, but there are quite a few songs he’s known forever, his parents’ favourites, as well.

He’s just dumping the spaghetti into a colander in the kitchen sink, when he hears a door open faintly over the soft chords of a Paul Simon track.

"Hi... honey," Harry tries. He feels like married people probably call each other 'honey,' and it's nicely gender-neutral.

Just in case.

He’s shushed rather insistently for his trouble, even though it’s still a distant sound like his probably-spouse is still taking off their shoes by the door or something.

“The baby’s finally asleep,” they whisper-shout.

 _Baby! Baby baby baby._ This Harry has a _baby_. A whole baby! A living person-baby, probably! _Baby._

Harry wipes his hands on the dishtowel and scoots as quickly and quietly as he can towards the hall.

The person stood in the living room with their shoes off but their jacket still on, gently holding a baby propped up so the baby’s head is resting on their shoulder, is definitely a man, and when he looks up definitely familiar.

“Louis,” Harry says, eyes wide with shock.

"Shush," Louis whispers. "Hi. Yes, it's me. This is Baby. She's a girl but I can't find her name anywhere."

“Oh,” Harry says. That... makes sense, he supposes. Baby looks far too young to be in any sort of nursery school, so they wouldn’t need to write her name in her clothes yet and, well, parents are supposed to know that sort of thing, aren’t they?

Christ, _parents_.

"Is... she yours?" Harry asks.

"Her photo's in my wallet," Louis says. "And, uh... so is yours. So."

Louis wriggles the fingers on the hand half hidden by how he’s holding Baby, and Harry catches the glint of a ring. Right. They’re married. And they have a baby. That’s nothing to freak out about.

“Do you... can I... what do I do?” he asks, a little frantic. Pasta he can do. Childcare? Not so much.

"She's asleep," Louis says. "So I guess she's alright, although if you know her name, it's probably better than calling her 'Baby.'"

“Er, no,” Harry says. “I was just here, and there was stuff in the kitchen so I... made dinner?”

It seems silly now, but how was he supposed to know he should have been prepared to deal wita child? Though when he turns around to gesture at the open plan kitchen, there’s a high chair at the table, which. Really. How did he miss that?

Louis sniffs the air and smiles. "It doesn't smell terrible."

"I'm a good cook," Harry protests. "I work in a bakery in, you know, real life."

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up.

“A real one? Where you have to be up hours before dawn to make bread and such?” he asks.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I don't, I just sweep up Saturdays and help ring out customers 'cause I'm cute," Harry says.

“Cool. I thought bakeries all just got the bread delivered these days and then, like, heated it. Finish baking it. Whatever that’s called,” Louis says.

He’s still got a sleeping baby in his arms. Probably they should get her out of her jacket and put her in her crib, or something.

Harry shakes his head and reaches out for Baby. He touches the back of her very small hand with one finger and she doesn't react, but her dark skin is so smooth and warm and she's a _real baby_. Looking up at Louis, though his face is older by about ten years, probably, Harry sees his feelings mirrored there. A _real baby_.

“Did you look around? Do you know where her room is?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head and lets the sleeping baby grasp onto his index finger. Her grip is strong, even asleep, and Harry falls a bit in love. "All I did was have time to start the pasta."

“Yeah, we weren’t far at all. Okay, finish up that pasta then, and I’ll go put her to bed,” Louis says.

Harry nods and steps back, letting the tiny hand fall back to her side.

He isn't eavesdropping, but he does hear Louis murmuring, "Yes, that's right, just going sleepy... it's okay, Baby, we'll find your name soon... yes, we will."

His heart does not melt. It doesn't.

The pasta has gone sticky in the colander, but it’s nothing a dash of olive oil won’t fix, and at least he’d already turned down the heat on the tomatoes, so there’s nothing that could have gone wrong there. Really all that’s left is to grate some cheese and plate it.

Louis is alone when he returns to the kitchen, and he looks awkward in the doorway, like he isn't sure the chair Harry's pulled out is for him.

Harry blinks and almost brains himself on the countertop when he dives to turn off an old, romantic Adele song on the iPod.

It does startle a chuckle out of Louis, at least.

“So I suppose you put this ring here,” he says, showing off his wedding band again, though this time with a teasing grin.

Harry automatically reaches to fiddle with his own.

“Well, I mean, not _me_ , technically...”

"I know." Louis fiddles with the gold band. "It's weird, though, isn't it?"

“What is? Being married?” Harry asks. It’s certainly a weird thought, but it’s not like they’ve _done_ anything yet. Or really need to do anything. At least this way he won’t have to decide whether to fake it with a spouse or try and awkwardly explain he’s a sixteen year old boy from some other dimension, or something.

"I meant the rings, but that, too." Louis sits and picks up his fork, still looking mainly at the ring on his left hand. "I didn't see myself as the wedding ring type, really."

“Oh,” Harry says, taking his seat opposite him. The high chair is set up between them, so they both have access to Baby, Harry assumes, and he has to smile at it a bit. _A baby._

“So if you got married would you just... not have rings? Or did you not want to get married at all?” Harry asks.

Louis stuff his mouth with noodles and says something around them that is totally indistinguishable, but does spray Harry with a healthy amount of sauce.

Right. Even this handsome Louis with a wedding ring and a baby is, actually, eighteen inside.

“Suddenly I’m glad you didn’t show up to take me on a date,” he says, morbidly fascinated.

Louis swallows and straightens up a bit, though he does roll his eyes. “Sorry, your highness.”

"Haven't been that, yet," Harry muses. He twirls his spaghetti around the fork. "Maybe next time I'll get to be a highness."

Louis snorts. “You do sound posh enough,” he says. “Suppose I’d be a lowly farmer or something.”

“Who knows? We might find out,” Harry grins, twirling a bit of spaghetti onto his fork.

Louis talks with his mouth full again, a blob of red sauce on his lower lip. "Hope not, if it's all the same. I hate the idea of farming."

Harry shrugs. It sounds kind of nice, actually. Not in a medieval setting, probably, what with the feudal system and the lack of health care and all that, but he did grow up in the country and maybe, at some point, it’d be nice to go back to it.

The wedding ring is heavy on his hand. He keeps looking at it while he twirls his pasta, listening for the baby.

This _is_ weird. They’re responsible for an entire small human, and they don’t even know her name!

“Maybe we should try and find Baby’s birth certificate,” Harry suggests.

Louis swallows and licks his thumb. "Yeah, probably. Do people keep those at home? I think Mum keeps ours in the bank deposit box. But I'm sure her name's somewhere here. Unless we kidnapped her."

"Don't even joke," Harry says. "Haven't we done enough high-energy heists?"

“One heist. And we barely even got started,” Louis points out. “But I suppose so. She was already in the car and asleep, I doubt I stole her.”

"Huh," Harry says. "Did you just pop into a moving car?"

"Yep," Louis says. "Good thing I'm an ace driver, me."

If true, that is definitely a little bit impressing. Harry squints his eyes at Louis.

“You called me from a car park though,” he says.

Louis has the decency to look a bit shifty. "Well, the ignition was on. That's practically moving."

Harry ducks his head and grins down at the rest of his pasta. “Mhm. Definitely,” he says.

“Anyway, that’s not the point. We need to find out Baby’s name,” Louis says.

Harry stands and collects his plate, then Louis'. "Alright. Any ideas where it could be? Wasn't painted on the room of her nursery, was it?"

Louis snorts a laugh and stretches a bit, patting at his belly. Harry turns away to hide his proud grin. He _is_ good at pasta.

“No, funnily enough our counterparts must not have planned for forgetting their daughter’s name,” he says.

“I just meant... some people put it on the door, or something. It’s a thing,” Harry says.

"Cheesy," Louis chides. He scratches his belly some more and turns in a slow circle. "I think the living room's through that door. I'll look down here if you want to take upstairs?"

Harry nods

“Sure, yeah,” he says, and wipes his hands on his jeans, feeling a little clammy suddenly. It’s not like he hasn’t poked around in his alternate lives before, and at least he knows he’s not disturbing anyone if all of this is Louis and his stuff. But still, he feels almost... nervous.

Louis pauses in the doorway. "Unless you'd rather look around together?"

“No, it- it’s fine,” Harry says, and smiles for good measure. He’s not going to be a baby about this. So instead he brushes past Louis and makes his way to where Louis carried the baby off to earlier.

There are photos of them all along the wall beside the staircase: Harry, and Louis, and the baby. There are a lot of portraits of her even though she can't be more than a year old, from what Harry saw and the little he knows about babies -- it's as though they're determined to chronicle every day of her life. Harry doesn't blame this version of himself for that, he supposes. His baby and his husband are both very cute.

Still, there are only dates on the back of the pictures, no names. Harry turns them all over just in case, but to no avail. The nursery doesn’t hold anything other than the crib, a toy chest, and a chest of drawers with a baby changing unit on it. The drawers are full of nappies and clothes, and even a pair of the tiniest converse shoes Harry has ever seen. He’s not sure Baby can even walk yet, but it’s good to know she’s got the footwear down.

It’s when he opens the chest of toys on a whim that he gets lucky. There’s a christmas card with a sweet cartoon reindeer on it in there, and when Harry turns in over it reads, _Dear Chloe, I hope you like your gift and your dads are passing on all the kisses I send to you!_ It’s signed by “Auntie Lo”, which isn’t a name that Harry can connect to anyone he knows, but he’s not particularly bothered by that. Outside of his family, he has yet to meet anyone he knows.

Harry pauses to look at the sleeping child and make sure that there aren't any blankets or pillows too near her tiny little mouth and that her nappy is dry and she seems happy. She's gorgeous, with tight-curled black hair in little puffs beside her ears and skin that practically glows with health.

Harry bends down and means to kiss her, but he just can't.

He isn't really her dad.

So instead he brushes one fingertip over the shell of her ear before jogging down the stairs to find Louis and show him the card.

“Did you find something?” Louis asks, looking up from where he’s rooting through a binder he’s pulled out of an open cabinet. “I only found bank statements.”

“Um, yeah. Her name’s Chloe,” Harry says, and hands the card over.

"Aunt Lo," Louis murmurs, and his eyes light up. "That's my sister. Charlotte, Lottie. My family's still here."

Harry grins back at Louis, mirroring his joy. “That’s great!”

“Yeah. Good to know,” Louis says with a shrug as though trying to brush it off. “I’m sure we’ll find traces of yours if we keep looking.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. They probably will, but, just like Mum in the last universe, and just like Chloe now, they’re not _his_ to worry about. The only family Harry wants to see again are the ones he left when he collapsed in his bedroom.

He sits down next to Louis, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter here than he’s used to. Shorter than the last two lives they fell into. Well, Harry is a dad here, so he supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that things are different here. Starting with his hair and ending with... who knows.

And somewhere in the middle of all that’s different here, is Louis. Harry stares down at the golden band wrapped around his finger and tries to wrap his mind around that. This is a life where Harry doesn’t just have a bit of a crush on Louis, this is one where they met and fell in love. Deeply in love. So much so that they decided to get married and start a family together. It’s something that Harry’s always wanted, but he can’t actually imagine what that feels like, finding the one person he wants to spend the rest of his life with - or at least a significantly large part of it.

“We should probably try to find calendars or something to find out what we’re supposed to be doing tomorrow,” Louis says then, cutting Harry’s musing short. “What day is it even?”

Harry looks up and nods.

“Our phones should enlighten us about that second part at least,” he says and gets up to fetch the phone he’d left on the kitchen counter. The dishes still need putting away, but he’ll deal with that before they go to bed.

_Bed._

Harry blushes suddenly at the thought of sharing a bed with Louis, even though he knows it won’t mean anything. He takes a steadying breath before ducking his head, checking the date on the phone as he makes his way back to Louis.

“‘s Friday,” Harry announces. “October fifth. 2023.”

“Wow,” Louis says, and leans back into the sofa.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.

“It’s 2010 for me, like, at home,” Louis says.

Harry honestly hasn’t even considered they might be from different places, different times, but he feels strangely reassured that Louis and he share that.

“Yeah, for me too,” Harry says.

“Not much has changed,” Louis comments idly, glancing around he room.

It’s true. Everything’s a bit sleeker, a bit thinner, the screens are bigger, but there aren’t any flying cars or anything. Thirteen years aren’t that long, in the grand scheme of things, Harry supposes, even if it’s almost his entire life span.

Nevertheless, he can’t help but grin.

“We don’t live underwater either,” he says,

“Well, it’s 2023, not 3023. Keep up, Harry,” Louis says, tone teasing, and bumps his shoulder against Harry’s.

Harry sort of wants to make a quip about how Chloe isn’t their great-great-great-grand daughter either, but the thought of the sleeping baby he’s responsible for still lurks heavily in the back of his mind, so he just smiles, a little proud of himself for having amused Louis.

God, crushes are pathetic. Harry’s not a fan. Well, he is a fan, actually, likes he butterflies and the recklessness that comes with it, but, well, that doesn’t mean there isn’t time for self-awareness.

“Do you reckon either of us work Saturdays?” Harry asks instead, steering the conversation back to perhaps less interesting, but more pressing issues.

“I sure hope not,” Louis says, cringing a bit. “I’ve no idea how I could fake myself through an entire day of that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. So far, his track record with faking things hasn’t been all that great, apart from the occasional muscle memory taking over, and magic being... well, magic. Harry’s fairly certain their relatively easy time at Hogwarts was down to the fact that they had been dealing with magic.

“We’ll just... see if we can find any hints, and if we don’t we stay home and fake a family emergency if anyone should call asking for us. We have a baby daughter. Anything could’ve happened to her,” Louis says with the kind of conviction that makes Harry agree immediately. It’s not like he had a better plan anyway, but it’s nice of Louis to sound like he’s convinced his plan is a _good_ one.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says again and smiles back at Louis when he smiles at Harry.

“So, do you want to snoop around more? See what we find?” Louis suggests.

Harry doesn’t really have a better suggestion as to what they could be doing with their time, so he just nods.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and follows Louis over to the cabinets where he’d found the bank statements earlier. There’s no need for them to split up, he thinks. They’re not looking for anything in particular and four eyes are better than two anyway, or something along those lines.

They spend the rest of the evening rifling through their counterparts’ lives, uncovering mundane details about their lives. There’s a whole binder full of documents, and Harry supposes it’s nice to know the exact date they signed the contract to buy their house, but it doesn’t really help them any. They find Louis’ work contract, so at least they know he’s an architect.

(“An _architect_?” Louis asks, eyes wide open like he genuinely can’t believe it.

“We’ve been spies, and ice skaters, and wizards, and bunnies, but the _architect_ surprises you?” Harry can’t help but ask.

Louis shrugs, tilting his face away a bit like he’s trying to hide the expression he’s wearing. Harry thinks he’s a bit embarrassed, maybe.

“Well, you’ve got to go to uni to be an architect, and I’m not even sure I’ve passed all my A levels,” he blusters, turning to grin at Harry like it’s no big deal.

Harry grins back. He’s fairly certain he did quite well on his GCSEs. Had to, after all, for mum to allow that he defers college for a year, should he get into The X-Factor.

“Well, looks like this you’s a brainiac,” Harry teases.

Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes, but there’s still that look on his face. Like he can’t quite believe any version of him could come this far.)

They don’t find Harry’s (“Well, maybe you’re my househusband!” Louis grins. Harry decidedly does not blush.), but they do receive a text message from Louis’ sister Charlotte about coming over the following day. Apparently Sunday is Chloe’s first birthday (party) and she won’t be able to make it.

“Well I guess that’s our weekend sorted,” Louis says, looking up from his phone. His eyes are a bit wild, like he’s considering all that they’re going to have to do to pull off a party on Sunday. All of the people who will come by expecting them to be people they are not.

Harry swallows against the lump in his throat.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry says. “If we could fake wizards and actors for literal Shakespeare, we can do this.”

“We didn’t actually have to do any acting for Shakespeare, and you were fired,” Louis points out.

“That’s not the point! And not helpful!” Harry says, feeling the tips of his ears warm. He wasn’t fired because of his lack of acting talent. Shakespeare _said_.

Louis grins and bumps his elbow into Harry’s side gently.

“I’m just teasing,” he says. “We’ll be fine.”

Honestly, Harry’s not sure if Louis actually believes that or just very much wants to.

They spend a bit more time looking through their counterparts’ lives, but there’s nothing amazingly helpful to be found. Surprisingly enough, there’s not manual on what to do if you’re an interdimensional traveler who finds themselves in these bodies with no idea how to behave, so all Louis and he can really do is what they’ve always done - fake it. Keep their heads down and hope that no one notices they don’t belong here.

Harry’s not sure how the whole sleep thing works with their world switching, doesn’t know how long it’s actually been since the last time he’s slept, but by the time it’s inching close to ten, he can’t stop yawning. It seems a bit early, but then he doesn’t know what this Harry’d been doing before Harry had dropped into this life. For all he knows this Harry spent the whole morning working out or rearranging furniture or fixing the kitchen sink. Regardless - Harry’s suddenly bone deep tired, like he’s not sure he can keep his eyelids open for long anymore.

“Tired?” Louis asks, smile gentle.

“Yeah. I think I’m gonna head to bed? Not sure we’ll find anything else useful here.”

Louis nods. “We should probably get all the rest we can anyway, what with... Chloe,” he says.

Harry nods a little dumbly. A _baby_. He’s still not over them having to take care of an _actual baby_. Harry loves babies, but in that abstract way where he’s never been alone with one and hasn’t really had to do anything with them other than hold them for a minute or two and marvel at their existence. He’s not looking forward to the nappies and the spitting - do one year olds still spit up after every meal? Harry has no idea.

“Right,” he says belatedly.

There’s a moment of pause in their conversation, and Harry looks down at his hands, trying to keep his fingers still and wondering if he should offer to sleep on the sofa. The bed will definitely be more restful but they’d have to share. And he has no idea how comfortable Louis is with that.

“So... about the bed,” he finally finds himself saying, glancing up at Louis from underneath his lashes.

Louis seems amused. “We’ll share? I assume it’s big enough,” he says.

Harry huffs a little breath of relief. “Okay. Good. I wasn’t sure...”

“If I wanted to share? It’s fine. It’s not like I’ve not shared beds before,” Louis says, still amused.

Harry’s brow furrows automatically, but he doesn’t really want to ask. It’s none of his business, is it? In what manner and with whom Louis has shared beds before.

“Well. To bed then?” Louis suggests, and Harry nods dumbly, accepting the hand Louis offers to pull him up off the floor where they’ve been sitting amidst folders of documents and things neither of them fully understand.

“I’ll go check the door’s locked,” Louis says.

Harry nods. “I’ll go turn off the kitchen light.”

They meet back at the stair case, and it feels a bit weird, to climb it together. To do it knowing they’re going to bed together, in this house that they bought together and life in together. Where they are married. Or at least their other versions are.

It’s strange, isn’t it? That in every life they seem to somehow be connected?

"I can hear you thinking,” Louis teases, bumping his shoulder against Harry's as he holds open the door to the bedroom.

"Sorry," Harry says automatically, though technically Louis wasn't complaining, and it's not even something for Louis to complain about in the first place. Surely Harry's allowed to think however much he pleases.

Louis laughs a little. "That's not what I meant,” he says.

Harry smiles and nods his acceptance, “Yeah, no, I know.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Louis promises. Harry’s not sure whether he means they’ll figure out how to behave like a married couple with a child, or the whole universe jumping thing. He’s not sure Louis really believes it either, but he really seems to want to make Harry believe it, so Harry grins.

“Course we will. Can’t be more difficult than actual magic,” he says.

Louis does him the courtesy of laughing.

“I think I’ll go check on, um, Chloe. Before we go to sleep,” he says then, taking a step back.

Harry hasn’t exactly completely forgotten about her, but hearing her name brought up still startles him.

“Okay, yeah. Sorry, I’m... pretty useless with babies,” he says.

Louis waves off his apology. “You can cook though,” he says.

Harry shrugs. He can. Sort of. Enough to make simple dishes, at least.

“Well, I’ll...” Louis says, pointing over his shoulder, and then turns around to leave.

Harry turns toward the bed and stares.

Does Louis have a preferred side?

Harry likes sleeping closer to the window, so he makes his way around the bed and carefully peels out of his jeans. There’s a tattoo of a tiger on his left thigh. There’s also a lot more substance to his thigh than he’s used to. It’s a very strange sensation, being in a body that's not really his. If Harry doesn’t think about it, everything’s fine. But as soon as he does, everything is strange; his center of gravity shifted, his hands bigger, his legs stronger, his hair shorter. It’s not that this body feels like anything in particular, just that Harry feels misplaced in it. Like the reach of his arm shouldn’t be as long as it is, and he’s tripping over his own feet all the time cause he expects them to work differently.

Harry runs a tongue along his teeth absentmindedly and then decides to go looking for the bathroom. Might as well be doing something productive.

He finds it right across the hall from the door to the nursery that’s stood slightly ajar. Louis hasn’t turned on the light in it, and Harry can only hear that he’s cooing something softly, but can’t make out the words. For a moment he hesitates, curious, but ultimately turns into the bathroom, closing the door behind himself so the light won’t spill out and wake the baby.

He takes a moment to stare into the mirror, at his unfamiliar face, the lines and older skin, the shorter hair and dusting of stubble. It doesn’t look like it’d grow into a full beard even if he tried, but this Harry obviously doesn’t even try. Harry has seen this face in the photographs along the stairs, of course, but seeing it here, in a mirror, wearing it and being able to make it move, is - unsettling. It’s one of the most foreign faces he’s had so far, and while he’s pleased that he seems to grow up quite handsome, it doesn’t feel like _his_ face - it _isn’t_ his face, not really. There’s no guarantee that this will ever be Harry’s face, even if they get home and he gets to grow up normally. Maybe Harry will have a tragic accident before then. Maybe his own body _will_ grow a beard. Maybe he’ll never want this haircut. As real as all of this feels, Harry can’t shake the constant crawling awareness under his skin that none of it _is_ properly real. Even assuming he hasn’t coughed up a lung and is currently lying in a coma dreaming everything up, these are not his lives, not his choices, not his-- anything.

Clenching his jaw, suddenly annoyed with himself, Harry looks away from the mirror and grabs for the red toothbrush in the cup by the sink, then halts. For a moment he wonders if this is this-Harry’s toothbrush, or if he’s about to use this-Louis’, but there’s no way they can find out, and anyway, Harry doesn’t particularly care right now.

He brushes his teeth almost aggressively, purposefully staring down at the white porcelain of the sink instead of at his own reflection. When Louis joins him, he looks up briefly, tries to smooth his face out into a less stormy expression but, judging by Louis’ quirked eyebrow, fails. So, with a toothbrush conveniently stuck in his mouth, Harry shrugs.

Louis smiles at him via the mirror and then grabs the other toothbrush, staring down at it for a moment like he’s having the exact same thought process Harry had earlier. It pulls a real smile from Harry, and the shrug he gives when their gazes catch in the mirror again is a lot more relaxed.

Louis rolls his eyes and grabs the toothpaste, joining Harry at the sink.

For a moment Harry wonders if he’s supposed to stay now, brush his teeth for another two or three minutes. He doesn’t want to seem like Louis’ company is unwelcome, but then staying would probably be weirder, so he leaves Louis to it.

“Do you have a preferred side?” he asks without looking up when Louis steps into the bedroom a few minutes later. He hasn’t slipped under the covers yet, but he’s sat on the side closer to the window, snooping through this Harry’s phone. There is a plethora of photos here, most of them of Louis and Chloe, some of Mum, Robin, Gemma, and a man Gemma seems to be dating. There are a few people Harry doesn’t recognise but he assumes are friends, given that they pop up quite often.

“No, like this is fine,” Louis says.

Harry can feel the mattress shift when Louis sits down on the other side of the bed. He sets the phone down on the nightstand, somehow nervous to turn around and confront the reality of sharing a bed with the boy he has a crush on. Not that the bed isn’t easily big enough for the both of them, it's more the principle of the thing. Harry will be sleeping in this bed, and so will Louis. It's not really a thing, and yet... the squirming in Harry's stomach insists that it is a bit of a thing.

“Are you okay?” Louis asks behind him, so Harry figures he has to turn around and face the music.

Louis has kept a vest on, but he doesn’t seem bothered at all that Harry’s topless. Harry's not sure if he's glad about that or a little disappointed. Probably both.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he says, trying for a reassuring smile. “It’s just... a lot. Especially with-- Chloe.”

“You don’t like babies?” Louis asks.

“No, no, I love babies,” Harry rushes to assure him. “I just don't know what to do with one. Don't you find it scary? Being responsible for a whole other person?”

Louis shrugs, but his smile is understanding.

“I have a whole brood of sisters, so I guess I kinda... know what I'm doing?” he says.

“Oh. Well, that's a relief,” Harry says. If at least one of them knows their way around a baby, then maybe not all hope is lost yet for the poor little bugger.

Louis laughs. “Glad to be of service,” he says, and then adds, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

“I guess that just means we make a good team,” Harry says.

“I guess it does,” Louis agrees.

Harry tries not to smile too big, and after a moment’s pause, Louis gets back up from the bed.

“Okay if I turn out the light?” he asks.

Harry nods.

The room plunges into darkness, Harry's eyes needing a moment before they can make out anything. He can hear Louis’ bare feet pad over the wooden floor, and then feel the bed move as he slips back underneath the covers, but he can’t even make out the shape of his own hand. Harry can feel and hear Louis shift around, trying to get comfortable, and it’s... strange. He spent over a week in a dormitory, but this isn't quite the same thing. Still, Harry tells himself, there’s no reason to make this weird, as his pausing is no doubt doing, so he takes the metaphorical plunge and shuffles further down on the sheets.

“Goodnight,” Louis says once they're both settled.

“Goodnight,” Harry replies.

He expects to feel even more awkward now, every breath audible in the stillness of the room, every rustle of the sheets too loud. Instead the exhaustion that prompted him to retire to bed earlier rears its head again, and between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.

The first time he wakes, it's to Louis stumbling out of bed and the baby crying in the other room. His heart is racing, and he’s sitting up in bed before he’s even realised what's happening. _God, they’re not equipped to deal with this, how are they supposed to--_

The baby stops crying.

In the sudden quiet, Harry can hear Louis singing to her softly, and his heartbeat slows as he sinks back into the bed. He can’t make out the words Louis’s singing, but he recognises the melody, his memory supplying the words and Mum's voice automatically. It makes his throat dry and his eyes sting, even when Louis’s climbing back into bed.

“She's alright. You can go back to sleep,” he mumbles, voice scratchy and tired despite the singing just now.

Harry doesn’t know how to respond, so he does as he’s told, relaxing against the pillow. He’s back asleep in no time.

The next time he wakes up, the baby’s not crying, but Louis isn't in bed either. Harry figures that means he's just sung her back to sleep again or simply needed a wee, and rolls over, going back to sleep instantly.

The third time he wakes, it's to sunshine filtering in through the curtains. His phone tells him it’s half seven in the morning, which he figures isn't bad, considering Chloe and all. Louis’s asleep, one hand curled against his chest and one laid out over the sheets like he’s reaching for something in his sleep. Harry has no idea what to feed a one year old in the mornings, but he has a vague idea what to feed an eighteen year old who has found himself inside the body of a thirty something, so he’s going to leave Chloe to Louis and just go prepare breakfast for the two of them. It's the least he can do, he figures.

He finds a pair of fitted joggers and a thin jumper in the closet, and grabs them both, along with a change of underwear, before tiptoeing to the bathroom for a quick shower.

He hears the shower go again on while he’s flipping pancakes, and by the time Louis pads into the kitchen, Chloe held easily in his arm, Harry’s got a whole breakfast spread going. There’s pancakes, and eggs, and toast, and bacon, and sausages. Coffee, and tea, and juice.

“Do you expect me to eat all of that?” Louis asks, eyes wide.

Harry's ears run a little hot.

“No, I just wasn't sure what you liked best, so I made a little bit of everything,” he explains.

“You certainly did,” Louis agrees, smile a little teasing. Chloe on his arm takes the opportunity to happily babble some nonsense.

“Have you found any oats or something?” Louis asks and immediately moves across the kitchen to rummage through the cupboards.

Harry goes to help, figuring he’ll know what he's looking for when he finds it. It's still Louis who does, but with Chloe on his arm, he can’t seem to reach far enough up. He’s glaring at the soft blue box as though it's mortally offended him, so Harry doesn't comment, only grabs it and sets it down on the counter.

“What else do we need?” he asks.

“Just some milk. Not cold, preferably. Maybe a mashed banana if there are any,” Louis replies.

Chloe’s watching them putter around the kitchen patiently, blinking down at the flurry of activity from her perch on Louis’ hip. Harry’s about to offer to feed her, but Louis grabs the spoon and piles scrambled eggs and a sausage onto his plate, feeding her with one hand, and himself with the other. Harry watches transfixed, the way Louis’s cooing and feeding and chewing such a practiced dance that his brood of sisters really must be quite the brood. And quite a bit younger than him. He's clearly as unconcerned by this as he was by the crying last night.

Harry knows, _knows_ , that this isn’t what an average day looks like for this-Harry and this-Louis, but they must have days like this sometimes. These idyllic mornings with music playing softly in the background, everyone including the baby in a good mood, and the sun filtering in through the windows. There are a few pots with herbs on the one windowsill that add a dash of colour and life, and Harry is almost envious of this life. More of the magic, or any of the other amazing things, this is... this is _it_ , isn’t it? The dream? Having married someone you get to spend these kinds of mornings with?

“I wonder when my sister will be by,” Louis says into the blue.

Harry blinks the musings away and then shrugs.

“She didn’t say?” he asks, even though they both know she didn’t. Maybe they’re supposed to know. Maybe she stops by every Saturday, always around the same time.

“No, I haven’t found anything,” Louis says anyway, as though there might have magically appeared another text they’d missed last night.

Well. Technically, Harry supposes, if she had texted him this morning, that is exactly what would have happened.

“So, I guess at least one of us has to stay in,” Harry says.

Louis looks at him and shrugs.

“I’ll stay in. I don’t mind, and I don’t want to miss her,” he says. “You can go out if you want.”

Harry smiles and tries not to feel dismissed.

“Maybe. For a walk or so. It’s nice out,” he says.

Louis rolls his eyes. “What are you, eighty?”

“Yes,” Harry says, instead of bothering to come up with something clever to say.

Louis laughs. “Well, at least you’re owning up to it, I suppose,” he says. “Nah, it’s a good idea though. You could take Chloe for a quick stroll, and I’ll try to see if I can’t find out anything more about our lives here?”

Harry blanches at the idea of being solely responsible for her.

“It’ll be fine. Just have a wander up and down the street. You won’t be far, and she’ll get a bit of fresh air and sun,” Louis says, smile encouraging.

“I mean... I guess?” Harry says. He’ll have his phone on him. It’s fine. And she’s one year old, that’s not _so_ tiny anymore.

Louis laughs. “Well, at least you’re owning up to it, I suppose,” he says. “Nah, it’s a good idea though. You could take Chloe for a quick stroll, and I’ll try to see if I can’t find out anything more about our lives here?”

Harry blanches at the idea of being solely responsible for her.

“It’ll be fine. Just have a wander up and down the street. You won’t be far, and she’ll get a bit of fresh air and sun,” Louis says, smile encouraging.

“I mean... I guess?” Harry says. He’ll have his phone on him. It’s fine. And she’s one year old, that’s not _so_ tiny anymore. She'll be fine. He'll be fine. Everything will be _fine_. And Louis's right, he'll just be a phone call and a few minutes away. And if she's crying, Harry can pick her up and coo at her. Just because he's never done it before doesn't mean he doesn't get the general gist of how to calm a baby.

"Perfect," Louis says.

Harry nods and tries to mimic Louis's certainty. He's not sure he succeeds exactly, but Louis doesn't outright laugh at him, so he figures it's fine. Louis would definitely not leave him alone with a baby if he actually thought there was a chance that Harry might accidentally get said baby killed. Even if it's not technically his baby. That Harry is sure of.

So twenty minutes later, after Louis showed him how to change a diaper and not get shit everywhere, Harry and Chloe are washed, coiffed, and dressed ready to go outside. It's nice day, at least, with sunshine and no wind, so they don't need to worry about bundling her up too much.

"There's a lift down the corridor," Louis says helpfully, when Harry awkwardly hovers by the door and wonders whether he's going to have to carry the pram downstairs.

"Thanks. I'll see you later then," Harry says. It feels strange, saying goodbye like this. They've said goodbye plenty by now, separated not only by the world shifting around them, but by separate class schedules, and dorms, and home addresses, but this is still new - saying goodbye while living together. Harry oddly feels like they ought to hug or something.

And then Louis does. Reaches out with his arms and wraps Harry up in a hug - briefly, but he does. Harry's almost too late to reciprocate, his hand more stroking Louis' back as he pulls away again than holding him close in return.

"You'll be _fine_ ," Louis assures.

"Yeah, we'll be peachy," Harry says, half to himself.

Louis gives him a gentle shove out of the flat, and Harry decides to take the hint. His body still feels warm where Louis pressed them together, and once the lift doors have closed, he allows himself a giddy grin. Louis didn't _have_ to hug him. He _wanted_ to. Even if it was just to reassure Harry, he still _wanted_ to, in some way. He's obviously not completely indifferent to Harry's existence. Harry's going to take his victories wherever he can get them.

Chloe, it turns out, is either a very well-behaved, docile child in general, or having a very chill day. She babbles peacefully, half-words, and jumbles of sounds, most of which Harry can't understand at all and isn't sure he's even supposed to be able to understand, and looks around at her surroundings with round, curious eyes. She's honestly adorable, and Harry's heart feels like it expands about three hundred sizes just in the half hour he spends pushing her pram around the neighbourhood. He meant to take a walk to get out for a bit and maybe see what's around the neighbourhood, should they remain here for a while and need to know where to get groceries and such, but it's proving to be a lot harder than he thought to take his attention away from the adorable girl he's pushing around. He supposes when you're an actual parent and get to see it all the time the novelty probably wears off at some point, otherwise he has no idea how new parents ever get anything done. It's just so miraculous to see this tiny little thing behave like a real person. She can even ask for a banana! (Okay, so, technically, she asked for a 'bana', but Harry was smart enough to figure that one out, and Louis was smart enough to pack one, after she didn't eat all that much at breakfast.)

He does manage to find a grocery store and a bakery though. At the bakery, he supposes, they're regulars, since the woman behind the counter waves at them when she spots them through the shop window. Harry's seen her in a few of the photos on this-Harry's phone, so they must be close. He smiles and waves back.

He can't figure out what town they're in, but the weather's appropriately English, and the nice day vanishes far more quickly than Harry would've liked. The wind picks up, and the sky fills with clouds, and as soon as Chloe snuggles deeper into the protection of her pram, Harry turns around and goes back. He will not be responsible for this child catching any sort of illness.

"Well, that was a short walk," Louis greets them, holding the door to the flat open for them.

"It got windy, and I wasn't sure she was dressed warm enough. She seemed cold," Harry explains.

"Oh, were you cold, little one?" Louis asks, kneeling down in front of the pram and undoing the straps so he can lift her out of it. He strips her off her jacket, hat, scarf, and shoes easily, and then picks her up to sit her on her hip, feeling the skin of her face with his hand.

"Nah, you're fine, aren't you? Harry's just a worrywart," he coos, brushing the tip of his nose against the tip of hers.

Chloe giggles and pats a hand against Louis' face. Harry's heart grows another few sizes watching them. Either he's having muscle-memory-feelings, or this crush is awfully, awfully bad.

And then Chloe turns her face up to Louis and asks, "Dada?"

Louis looks up at Harry and grins.

"Guess that makes you 'Daddy'," he says, and then turns so he can point Harry out to Chloe, who beams immediately when she catches sight of him. At this point, Harry figures, he can probably just give up on his heart.

"Oh yeah!" Louis says then, "I think I've found out what you do. I think you're a photographer."

"A photographer? How d'you figure?" Harry asks, glad for the distraction.

"Well, the monogrammed camera bag with the expensive as shit camera was a clue. Also, there's a ton of photos around the house, but you're not in that many of them. So I assume you're the one taking them," Louis says.

"Maybe it's just a hobby," Harry points out.

Louis seems unconcerned.

"Maybe," he shrugs, "Or maybe you're a bigshot artist slumming it with a mediocre architect. I mean, we've got to be getting the money for all this somewhere."

"Maybe you're a bigshot architect slumming it with a mediocre artist," Harry shoots back.

Louis rolls his eyes.

"Don't use my own words against me," he protests.

"But they were right there!" Harry teases, finally deciding to move further into the flat. Nice as their little get together by the front door is, he could go for some tea or something.

Louis follows him into the kitchen.

"And my sister texted. She says she'll be here around lunch, so we should probably make sure we've... got lunch. Just in case," he says.

"Oh, okay."

"I checked the fridge. It seems well-stocked, though I have no idea if it actually is," Louis says.

Harry shoots him a quick smile and then turns to check himself after setting water to boil in the kettle.

The fridge is, indeed, well-stocked, and there's even some frozen veg in the freezer. Harry's sure his mum could whip up something amazing with it, but all Harry can really think of is fajitas, or something like it. He's only made it the once, but he _has_ at least made it before. And there's chicken breasts and bell peppers. Maybe there's sweet corn and beans in the pantry. He could just make rice to go with it, not bother with the rolling or anything, if they don't have any wrap tortillas. And it seems somehow more grown up anyway, to have it all on a plate or something.

"Okay, I can make something," he says, "You'll--"

"--take care of Chloe, no problem. It's not even ten yet though, so I don't think you need to worry about it yet," Louis says.

Louis has a point, and so they spend the next two hours playing with Chloe, for the lack of anything better to do. At first Harry leaves Louis to it and goes snooping around himself, but there's no more he can find that can give them any sort of clues to what they're supposed to be doing with their everyday lives here. Harry wishes one of them kept a journal, or something like it. As fun as it is to rifle through their book and dvd collections, there's nothing here but context clues. They seem to like a few rom coms, some comedies, some action comedies. If it's anything light hearted, they're in, apparently. Harry'd watch pretty much any of these movies, even if he hasn't heard of half of them.

When Louis helps Chloe toddle into the room though, it's pretty much decided that he's going to spend the remaining time until he has to get started on lunch with them. Harry's not the kind of person who can say no to eyes that round and voices that sweet.

Louis' sister ends up having impeccable timing, the doorbell chiming just as Harry's done cooking and Louis has put Chloe down for her midday nap. For a moment they both freeze, worried the noise is going to wake her again, but when she doesn't stir, Louis grins.

"You finish the food, I'll get the door," he says.

Harry nods and turns back into the kitchen.

"And we'll have to be properly married in front of my sister!" Louis calls after him as though it just occurred to him.

Harry has been vaguely wondering about it all day, but he still has no idea what Louis considers "properly married". He's tactile with Chloe, but definitely not with Harry. And maybe that's because Chloe's a baby, or maybe it's because he doesn't know Harry well, but maybe it isn't. So is Harry supposed to be touchy and PDA-y or not? Does he go for pet names?

They really should have planned this.

He can hear Louis and his sister say hello by the door just as he's plating lunch, too late now to ask for any sort of clarification. And anyway, just because Louis prefers a certain thing, doesn't mean this-Louis does, so Harry's not sure how much good it would have done anyway.

"Hey, H," Charlotte greets him when she sweeps into the kitchen, wrapping one arm around Harry's waist in half a hug, "Smells absolutely delicious. I knew I could count on you for a proper lunch."

"Just using us for our food, I see," Louis teases.

"Obviously. I'm definitely not here for your ugly mug," Charlotte shoots back and sits down at the table with the nonchalance of someone who is used to doing it.

"Chloe asleep?" she asks, reaching for the glass of water by her plate.

"Yeah, just went down for her nap," Louis says, mirroring her.

Harry can only watch them for a moment, fascinated by how easily Louis jokes around with this young woman he's never met before. Sure, she's this-Louis' sister, but Louis manages to act like she's _his_ sister. Seemingly without any trouble. Harry has no idea how he does it.

When Harry sets the plates down and joins them at the table, Louis grabs his hand and presses a quick kiss to the back of it, sharing a brief smile. Harry knows that this is for show, that this is his clue as to what Louis meant when he said "properly married", but he still only manages to smile back and hope it's not too soppily, while his brain briefly falls into static. This whole pretending-to-be-married-to-someone-you-have-a-crush-on thing is probably going to be a bit of an exercise in compartmentalisation.

The back of Harry's hand stays warm all the way through lunch and the conversation Louis keeps going with Charlotte as though they chat every day. Harry tries to help, tries to appear lively, and engaged in the conversation, and a few of his comments make Charlotte laugh, but he can't quite calm the racing of his heart. He's constantly worried Charlotte's about to call them out on unusual behaviour, and honestly, he's probably going to join Chloe for a nap once this lunch is over. Pretending to be someone you're not is _exhausting_.

Charlotte doesn't call them out for anything though, and she's brought them cake that Chloe enthusiastically tries to eat with her bare hands - no matter how much Louis and Harry cajole, and scold, and bribe. Harry tentatively thinks of it as a success. Turns out faking a marriage is almost as stressful as faking being a spy. Less guns, but Charlotte terrifies Harry a little. She reminds him of Gemma, which is both nice and, well, terrifying. Harry loves his sister, but he wouldn't want to cross her if he didn't have the baby brother bonus with her always, no matter what she claims.

Louis takes Chloe to wash her hands and face, and possibly change her clothes, and Charlotte follows Harry into the kitchen, insisting she help with the dishes.

It only takes a second of hesitation on her part when they're alone together for Harry's heart to plummet.

"Are you and Louis okay?" Charlotte asks carefully. "Cause I know my brother can be a piece of work sometimes."

Harry absently notes that Louis' own sister seems to be on Harry's side in this hypothetical fight they're having. Then he shakes his head.

"No, no, there's nothing wrong! We're fine. I just haven't been sleeping well, and it's catching up with me a bit, I think," Harry says.

Charlotte doesn't look like she believes him.

"I know it's probably awkward talking to your sister-in-law about these things, but if you want to unload, or talk about something, I'm here to listen, yeah? I love Louis, but I really like you too," she says.

Harry swallows heavily and then squeezes her in an impulsive hug.

"Same here," he says. "But, really, we're fine. I love your brother just as much today as I have for the last years."

Charlotte sighs against his chest and moves back.

"Okay. I'm just being silly, probably," she says. "Like, don't get me wrong, it was nice to have a meal without your nauseating PDA level, but it still feels somehow off."

Harry laughs, even as his brain races with the news. It's good to know this, on the one hand. On the other... 'nauseating PDA level'? Harry's never been nauseatingly PDA with anyone. Least of all someone he has a one-sided crush on. Harry really loves this life for giving him a cute baby, and a cute husband, and a cute house, but he really hates it too, for all those things. It doesn't seem fair, just dangling them there for Harry to hold, but know they don't belong to him.

"Really, there's no need to worry," Harry says, and then adds, "Our sex life is as great as ever--"

"Christ, _no_! I don't want to hear about that!" Charlotte immediately cuts him off, and this time the laugh comes a little easier to Harry. That one always works, doesn't it.

"That's what you get for being nosy, Auntie Lo," Louis pipes up.

Harry and Charlotte both whirl around to see him leaning a shoulder against the doorway to the kitchen, grinning smugly. His eyes are twinkling like he's genuinely amused, and Harry grins back bigger when their eyes catch.

"Ugh, this is the last time I try to be nice to you, I promise," Charlotte says.

"That's not the first time I've heard that one," Louis teases, and attempts to grab her in a headlock that she evades easily. She's laughing though, so Harry supposes that's something this-Louis does as well.

"Anyway. I'm sorry I can't be here tomorrow, but this whole thing with Matt's parents..."

"No, sure, it's really no problem," Louis says with a gentle smile.

"And you came to drop off your present, so that's really the most important part," Harry teases.

Charlotte laughs.

"You two are the worst," she says, shaking her head, and making her way back to the front door.

"Thanks," Louis says, arms slung around Harry's waist, as the height difference between this-Louis and this-Harry comes out in Harry's favour. So much so that it wouldn't be particularly comfortable for Louis to lay his arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry bites back a smile, though going by the pinch Louis gives his side maybe he's correctly identified the twitching of the corners of Harry's mouth.

"Well, give my niece a kiss from me, and I'll see you Tuesday," Charlotte says.

"Sure. Our best to Matt," Harry says, wrapping one arm around Charlotte to hug her goodbye, the other one awkwardly trapped between his and Louis' body.

Louis just wraps around the rest of Charlotte, turning their hug into a group situation. Charlotte laughs again, and pushes them both off to let herself out.

Harry sighs into the ensuing silence.

"That could've gone better," he says.

"That could've gone a lot worse," Louis says, giving Harry's waist a squeeze before he lets him go and takes a step back.

"Still," Harry says and shrugs. He's not exactly sure how to phrase "sorry for almost blowing our cover as interdimensional teenagers trapped in this way too adult life that's not meant for us" without opening that entire can of worms.

"Nah, you're fine," Louis says. "She totally bought it all anyway. And who knows? She might have been worrying for a while now, and it's not really due to anything we did at all."

Louis might just be trying to make Harry feel better about his abysmal acting skills, but still, he does have a point. With all the cute pictures of this perfect family around Harry hasn't considered that maybe this-Louis and this-Harry are having problems of some sort. Maybe Louis works too much. Maybe Harry does. Maybe they just underestimated how much work a child would be. Maybe they're in debt. There's hundreds of scenarios that make this seemingly-perfect life less than that. Harry's not sure why he never considered any of them.

"Yeah, maybe," he says. He sort of hopes it was him. That this-Harry and this-Louis get to be incandescently happy.

"Anyway, what are we going to do with the rest of our day?" Louis asks.

Harry shrugs, just as Chloe starts crying the just-woken-up cry from the other room. That's their afternoon sorted he assumes, as Louis winks and then goes to get her.

It is. It feels like Harry sits down to entertain Chloe while Louis goes to fix her a snack, and when he looks up next it's evening and Louis is smiling sheepishly because his stomach just made a hungry growling noise. So Harry goes to fix them some food, and before he knows it - in between feeding, and bathing, and changing Chloe, not to mention putting her to bed, it's suddenly nine in the evening and he's exhausted again.

"I've got a new appreciation for everything Mum had to do to get my sister and me here," Harry says when Louis comes back from Chloe's room to join him on the sofa.

Louis laughs and flops down onto the sofa sideways, propping his feet up in Harry's lap.

"Yeah, babies are a handful. And this one's, like, the perfect baby," he says.

Harry hums agreeably. He hasn't dealt with all that many babies, but she did seem unusually docile all day.

"So what are we going to do about tomorrow?" Louis asks then.

"I could bake a cake or two," Harry says.

"You're perfect husband material already, aren't you," Louis teases.

Harry feels his cheeks heat and shrugs it off.

"I mean, I haven't even taken my GCSE yet so I doubt I'd bring in a lot of money, but I guess I'd make a good trophy husband," he says.

Louis laughs.

"Well, you've certainly got the look down," he says with a grin, gesturing at Harry's skinny jeans and button-down shirt ensemble.

"You're not so bad yourself," Harry says, giving one of Louis' ankles a squeeze. There's a small triangle tattoed there, the lines thin but somehow perfect for Louis' almost dainty looking ankles. Harry doesn't tend to think much about ankles, and he doesn't tend to use words like "dainty", but here with Louis' feet in his lap it somehow occurs to him that that's the perfect word for them.

Louis wriggles his naked toes and smiles back, the tilt of his lips and head almost a little shy.

"Thanks," he says, "though I don't really look anything like this."

"I'm sure you look a little bit like this, just younger."

"I really don't like tattoos," Louis says, scrunching his face up a little. "And I've got this massive one on my chest."

"Really? I've kinda been wanting one, but my mum says she won't sign for one, so I have to wait till I'm eighteen," Harry says. He likes the tiger this Harry has on his leg. It's a bit of an odd choice maybe, but it's not like he knows anything about this-Harry's life. Maybe it's a perfectly logical choice for him. And if not then Harry supposes he can respect just getting a tiger permanently inked into the skin of your thigh because why not.

"Alright, so while you do Great British Bake Off, I'll keep the little one busy," Louis says. "And then we'll try not to make all our friends and families think our marriage is falling apart."

"Well, Charlotte said these versions of us are apparently nauseating with their PDA and such," Harry says. That's probably a good thing to keep in mind. Louis can apparently fake his way through any conversation, and Harry will just claim tiredness again, if he has to. It'll be consistent at least, should anyone think to ask Charlotte of her opinion, and it's an easy and believable excuse anyway. Everyone gets tired sometimes, after all.

Louis nods, but doesn't say anything for a moment, and Harry's not really sure how to proceed, so he tries for a joke.

"I'm sure she didn't mean they regularly full on snog in front of their entire families," he says.

Louis smiles, but it seems more polite than anything.

"I've just never really kissed another guy before," he says with a shrug.

"Neither have I," Harry says.

"Oh? I thought-- sorry, I thought you... sorry. I shouldn't make assumptions," Louis says, apologetic and a little embarrassed.

"It's okay. I'm, um, I mean..." Harry tries to say, but he can't quite find the words. He doesn't know how to word "I've only had crushes on girls before, but now I've got a crush on you" in a way that doesn't explicitly confirm to Louis that, yes, Harry does indeed have a crush on him. Not that Louis needs all that much confirmation at this point.

"Don't worry about it, mate, you don't owe me anything," Louis says, when Harry doesn't pick his sentence back up to complete it.

Harry nods gratefully.

"Anyway, that just means we're in the same boat. And, I mean, I don't mind, giving you a few pecks and canoodling a little. If you're...?"

"No, yeah, I'm okay with it. I don't mind," Harry rushes to say. He doesn't dole it out quite so easily, but Harry quite likes physical displays of affection. It's just not something any of the lads would ever do without following it up with a stupid joke or a shove. At least not when sober. And cuddling your older sister is only a thing for so long, and then she gets to old to put up with you, and you get too cool to put up with her... So there's really only Mum now. And Dusty. And maybe Alice, every now and then.

"Okay," Louis says, "that's that sorted then."

Harry nods again. There's not really much they can do to prevent tomorrow from becoming some sort of disaster other than what they're already doing.

"Maybe we won't even be here tomorrow," Harry says idly.

A part of him really wishes he had been right about their changing universes when they move closer or farther away from each other. It's soppy as all hell, of course, but at least then they'd have something to work with. They could stay somewhere and try to come up with some sort of game plan. Or they could keep going from one to the next until they get back to their lives.

"Yeah, maybe," Louis agrees with a fleeting smile.

"I really wish we knew what made us switch each time. Like, is it the same thing every time? Is it different things? Obviously I wasn't right before, since we were going to go on a literal date last time when we jumped," Harry muses.

"Yeah. I was just on my way to come get you when it happened," Louis says, nodding.

"Maybe it's something else entirely," Harry suggests, "moon phases or something."

"What, like a horoscope? When the planets align just right and all that?" Louis asks, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"Well, given that we seem to literally go from one universe to the next, it doesn't seem that absurd," Harry says.

"True. But what if there is no reason?" Louis asks.

"What, you mean it's just random?"

"Yeah."

Harry sighs.

"Well, that would suck," he says. "We've got no way to work it out if it's totally random, do we?"

"What, and we do if it's got a reason? There are so many things that could be causing it - I assume, since I'm no expert on this sort of thing," Louis says.

"I mean, yeah, but... I just want to be doing something, you know? To get us home?" Harry explains. "Trying to work it out makes me feel better, I guess."

"I get that. I-- I wanna go home too," Louis says.

"We'll just keep trying," Harry says, even though he's not sure they've been trying at all so far. They did, a little, back at Hogwarts, but there's nothing here that suggests they'll find any sort of answers - at least not ones they can understand. Somehow magic seemed easier than... quantum physics, or whatever it'd be that could have answers to this.

"Yeah," Louis says, and then yawns.

"Wanna watch one of these films and then call it a night?" he suggests.

"Sure, yeah," Harry says.

Louis gets up to pick one, and turns around with a huge grin when he finds something he wants to watch. Harry's inclined to agree no matter what it is, for that smile.

"We're watching Grease," Louis announces, "since we almost lived it."

Harry laughs and settles more comfortably onto the sofa.

"I can't believe they have it here, it's one of my favourite films," Louis says, sitting back down at Harry's side. He's closer than before, but still not very close. Not close enough to "accidentally" end up snuggling, Harry thinks wildly, and then wishes he hadn't. Of _course_ they're not going to snuggle.

Despite the proclamation about it being one of his favourite films, Louis nods off what Harry guesses is about halfway through it. Harry considers waking him and going to bed, but he's a little invested in the story now, fascinated by the thought that the last world they popped up in followed that script - however loosely, since Harry doesn't think they were in the fifties, and definitely not in the US. So he leaves him be, but when Louis starts sagging to the side, Harry eases him down the rest of the way and takes his feet in his lap again. Charlotte would be happy about the display of domesticity.

When Sandy and Danny have flown off into the sunset in the car - which, what? - Harry sets about shutting off the TV, and then gently shakes Louis awake.

"Did I fall asleep?" Louis asks, blinking blearily in the dim light of the living room.

"Yeah. Film's just over. We should head up to bed," Harry says.

Louis nods along, and lets Harry help him up, stumbling up the steps in front of him.

They don't talk while getting ready for bed, and Louis falls back asleep practically as soon as his head hits the pillow.

The next morning when Harry's making breakfast again and Louis carries Chloe into the kitchen, bouncing her on his arm a little, there's no trace of that left. Instead, his smile seems bright and teeming with energy.

"Good morning," Louis says, and, before Harry can return the greeting, kisses him on the cheek gently.

Harry halts for a moment and feels his cheeks twitch in an embarrassed smile, ears hot.

"You shouldn't blush if this is supposed to look realistic. I doubt you'd blush just because your husband kissed you on the cheek," Louis says, and kisses him on the cheek again.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles.

"It's fine. It just occurred to me that we probably ought to test it," Louis says.

"Well, I wasn't expecting it now. I'll be fine later," Harry says.

Louis hums agreeably, bopping Chloe on the nose with a soppy smile on his face.

"I'll just have to get you used to it, I suppose," he says to Harry then.

Harry's not sure what on Earth that's supposed to mean, but he swallows against the sudden heavy thudding of his heart and leans over to give Louis a kiss on the cheek in return.

"I suppose you must," he says.

Louis seems taken aback for a moment, but then laughs.

"Didn't think you had that in you," he says.

Harry shrugs, smile and heartbeat easier now, and says, "I am full of surprises."

"Well, that's what makes it fun," Louis says, and then pinches Harry's bum before settling Chloe in her high chair.

Harry uselessly pokes at a sausage and pretends he's not as confused as he is. It's not that he doesn't welcome Louis' playfulness, it _is_ fun, but Harry doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Louis it seems, has no plans of letting up on the kisses and general physical contact. He keeps _touching_ Harry - hands on his waist to steady him as he squeezes past him to get at a cabinet, a hand on his arm while he's asking a question, a kiss on the cheek every now and then just because he seems to think they've gone too long without checking for Harry's blush. It does, at least, accomplish what Louis said he wanted; it gets Harry used to it. It loosens the tight screw of anxiety in his chest a little and makes it easier to joke along with Louis, to not look at Chloe and worry quite so much that he's going to irrevocably damage her while she's in their care, to forget for a few moments the craziness of this entire situation.

So while Harry is baking a birthday cake and prepping some savory snacks for their guests, Louis entertains Chloe and occasionally comes into the kitchen to be a general distraction. It's unbelievably domestic, and it's very nice, and it's only once Harry glances up and realises their guests are due to arrive in less than half an hour that the anxiety screws tighter again.

"Relax, Curly-Wurly," Louis teases, a hand firmly wrapped around Harry's, even though it's a lot smaller than his.

"Just claim a headache or something and leave the talking to me if it gets to be too much. We're a team in this, remember?" Louis says.

Harry nods and sighs a shaky breath. They do make a good team. Chloe's still happy and healthy, for one. That's probably the most important thing here. He's sure that's something with which this-Harry-and-Louis would agree.

"Okay. So. Go have a shower and put on something that doesn't have cake spattered all over it, and Chloe and I will greet the guests. We'll be fine," Louis says.

"We'll be fine," Harry echoes.

Louis smiles at him and moves up on his tiptoes for another kiss to Harry's cheek. Harry turns his head for it automatically, earning himself a chuckle from Louis.

"See, we're already much better at this. It'll be fine," he repeats.

Harry grins and leans down to leave his own kiss on Louis' cheek. It's possibly a bit closer to Louis' mouth than Louis' kiss was, but Harry figures being convincingly married is as good an excuse as any to get away with that, should Louis call him out on it.

He doesn't. He just eyes Harry contemplatively for a moment and then swats his bum and tells him to get going. Harry laughs, and does. The shower is quite nice, even though Harry spends most of it trying not to think about what comes after.

No amount of not thinking about it can prevent it from happening though, so Harry pulls on clean clothes, voices from downstairs indicating the first guests have indeed arrived already even though a quick glance at his phone tells Harry they're early, and makes his way down to where he finds Louis showing off baby Chloe to a woman with a pleasant, round face and a wide smile. She looks up when Harry enters the room and beams at him, making her way over for a greeting.

"Hello, darling," she says, giving him a gentle hug and kissing his cheek, "Louis says you're feeling a bit under the weather?"

"Yeah, just a bit. Haven't been sleeping too well," Harry says.

"Chloe keeping you up? The first twins were horrible with that. Wouldn't sleep through the night till they were almost three," she says.

"No, Chloe's been fine. I don't really know what it is. I'm sure it'll pass," Harry tries to reassure her.

"Don't pester him, mum," Louis cuts in.

_Oh._

"Oh, Harry knows a mum worries," Louis' mum says.

Harry smiles at her and lays a hand on her arm.

"Really though, there's no need. I'll be right as rain in a day or two," he says.

She pats him on the cheek with a smile that Harry's seen on his own mother's face dozens of times before turning back to Louis and Chloe.

Harry takes the moment to flee into the kitchen, making sure everything is actually ready to be served, and no major disasters have occurred while he wasn't watching. It sets a precedent for the rest of the day. The only people he spends any extended amount of time with are his own Mum and Robin, and mostly only because not doing it would be far too suspicious. He hasn't got a clue how to behave around them, and while seeing them is making him want to beg them to just hold him and tell him everything will be alright, he knows that he can't. It feels a lot more bitter than it does sweet.

But, despite the anxiety in Harry's chest not really easing up, at least not all the way, the afternoon passes successfully. He doesn't blush when Louis catches him around the waist as he passes, and pulls him in for a quick kiss to the cheek, or - once - to the lips. Chloe only cries two or three times, and Louis calms her down easily. The cake came out edible, as did everything else. The presents all seem thoughtful, not that Harry's going to be getting any use out of them. By the time everyone has said goodbye and Louis is putting Chloe to bed while Harry tidies up in the kitchen, Harry is exhausted, but more relaxed. His chest is finally starting to loosen, and he hums along a little to the music coming from his phone, idly pressing his lips together and thinking of the fleeting pressure of Louis' against them. It's not-- it makes sense, that they'd kiss on the mouth at least once. But it still feels-- more. It feels like maybe they would've gotten away with not doing it. That Louis was clearly not incorporating it into his getting-Harry-used-to-it kissing scheme from earlier in the day.

Harry doesn't know what to make of it.

He brings the cake back in from the living room, holding the fridge door open with one hand, balancing the cake in the other while surveying the insides of the fridge, trying to work out how exactly to move everything around to make room for the platter, when he suddenly loses the ground under his feet - and everything else.

It's quick, this transition, and just as Harry's realising he's been pulled from that world of domestic bliss, he's spat out somewhere else.


	4. Chapter 4

It's far warmer here. And humid. And there's someone walking with Harry, chattering a mile a minute. Harry stumbles over the air as he's trying to gain back his balance, and the man next to him halts for a second before shaking his head and going back to his rant about... Harry can't work it out.

"So, Timothy and Jeremiah started getting into it, yeah, all bluster and everything and we just didn't know how to break it up, cause we couldn't really get to them quickly. So we were just shouting to divert their attention or something, but they weren't having it. And, bloody hell, we've only got the two, y'know? Can't really afford to lose either," the man Harry's walking with says.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, because that seems to be what he's expected to do here.

"So, anyway, you know who broke it up? Alika. Tiny little Alika just flew right in and gave them what-for."

"Huh," Harry says. Must be some office the man works in.

"That's what we were thinking," the man grins.

Harry grins back.

"But enough about me, how were things on your end?"

"Nothing quite as interesting," Harry says, "pretty much just business as usual."

Probably. Statistically, Harry's not lying. Also, he has no clue what 'business as usual' even constitutes, so there is that.

The man next to him, hair a bleach bright blonde, and laugh even brighter, shakes his head and grins.

"You always say that, H, and then later I find out you wrestled Thomas or something," he says.

"I promise I didn't wrestle anyone," Harry says. Is this-Harry a _wrestler_? If so, then maybe Harry can empathise a bit more with Louis being so surprised at being an architect. There is not a life Harry could imagine for himself where he wrestles.

"If you say so, Styles," the man says, and then holds a door open for Harry to step through.

It's a bar, he find when he looks around, the air inside not quite as humid as outside thanks to air conditioning. The buzz of happy people and the game of footie on the telly behind the bar crawl over Harry's skin like tiny insects, raising goosebumps from his arms.

"Don't think the others are here yet," this-Harry's friend says, "I'll go grab us pints if you grab us a table?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry says, stretching up a bit to look around the bar over the tops of people's heads, trying to find a table for a group of... well. Harry really doesn't know.

"How many did you say we were gonna be?" Harry asks, hoping the question sounds more casual than he feels.

The man laughs and shakes his head, but it seems fond.

"Tommo and Bressie," he says, "where've you got your head today?"

"Just a bit tired," Harry says with a shrug and a grin. "I'll go grab that table then, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll come find you in a bit. First round's on me," the man says and turns around, vanishing into the crowd of people.

Harry spots a table towards the back of the room, and weaves his way through the crowd, sitting down splayed out on the bench proprietarily. This-Harry is older than he is as well, and so far adult Harry's have all been quite tall. Harry's taking that as a good sign. There's no guarantee of course, but so far, Harry thinks probability might be on his side. He huffs a quiet laugh to himself at the thought. Who would've guessed he'd ever have statistics to back him up on hoping he'll grow tall?

It's not long before this evening's companion comes to find him again, a tray of shots balanced on four pints. Harry reaches for the tray automatically, setting it down so as to make setting down the pints easier.

"Thanks. Bressie texted, they should be here any moment," the man says. Harry wishes there were a way to learn his name without being weird, but maybe, if he's lucky, Bressie or Tommo - Harry hopes that'll be Louis here too - will know it and address him as such.

He sits down opposite Harry, and pushes one of the pints over to him.

"I say we get started without 'em. Don't want these to get warm," he says.

Harry grabs for the pints and nods.

"Cheers then," he says.

They clink their glasses together perfunctorily, and Harry keeps his eyes glued to it as he lifts it, trying not to spill any of the white foam sloshing up against the rim of the glass. His companion snorts a laugh, and when Harry looks up he seems amused by Harry's struggle, but sort of fond as well. Harry supposes this-Harry and this man must be pretty good friends then.

"Oh, shut it," Harry murmurs and then takes his first drink of the beer. It's not really something Harry's acquired a taste for yet, but he manages to keep his face under control as he sets the glass back down.

"Not my fault you're such a clumsy kitten," the man says.

"Clumsy kitten?" Harry repeats, amused.

The man shrugs. "You do traipse around like you're half-blind and unsure how your limbs work most of the time," he says.

"Wow, thanks, mate. Tell me how you really feel why don't you," Harry says, but laughs. A half-blind kitten. Well, safe to say this-Harry isn't any better at footie than Harry is himself then.

"N'aw, you know I'm just teasing," the man says and lifts his glass in another salute before taking another swig from it.

Harry rolls his eyes, but reaches for his beer again as well. Harry's not much of a beer drinker back home; because when you grow up in a tiny town and you're underage you can really only drink at home, since every barman knows how old you are or at least how old you aren't, and there aren't that many older siblings willing to help you out around either, but also because Harry doesn't think he's much of a beer drinker in general. Given the choice he thinks he'd rather go for something less... bitter. Less.... beer. It's cool and refreshing, yes, but so is pretty much anything else that's cool, so Harry doesn't really understand how that's supposed to be a unique beer selling point. At the moment though, he's glad he can put the shots off. He hopes this body deals with alcohol better than his own skinny one does at home, but he's not really sure he wants to get completely hammered tonight.

"You good?" the man sitting with him asks then.

"Hm?" Harry asks back, looking up from the table.

"You looked pretty lost in your head there," the man says.

"Oh, yeah, just... tired, I guess," Harry says, shrugging it off.

"Well, good thing tomorrow's your day off then," the man says with a grin.

Harry grins back. "Good thing indeed," he says.

And very good to know as well.

Before the inevitable lapse in conversation can become awkward again, a booming voice that Harry can recognise in almost any cadence by now calls out to them.

"Horan! Harold!" Louis calls, arms up and making his way through the crowd seemingly without even noticing it's there.

"How are you, lads," he asks once he's arrived at the table, squishing onto the bench next to Harry and reaching for a pint.

"Can't complain," Horan says.

"Except about your birds," Harry adds with a grin.

Horan laughs. "Yeah, 'cept for those," he says.

"All's well then," Louis grins and cheers-es them both as well as the man he'd come with - Bressie, Harry remembers - before taking a generous few gulps of the beer.

"Go on, Tommo," Horan laughs when Louis sets it back down, glass half empty now.

"Really needed that," Louis says, like he's actually been at work all day and hasn't put a baby to bed just a little while ago. Or maybe that's what he's referring to, given the sly smile he shares with Harry. Harry could understand needing a break after keeping up the pretense of a happy marriage to a bunch of strangers who were supposed to be your closest friends.

"Hard day?" Harry asks.

Louis shrugs. "Not so hard, just... a lot," he says.

Harry smiles and nods.

"Alright, well, now that you're here, we can get to the shots," Horan announces, setting one down in front of each of them.

"You don't waste any time, do you," Louis says, tone somewhere between amused and impressed.

"No time to waste. It's not Friday evening long enough for that," Horan says prompting a laugh from Louis.

"I'll drink to that," he says, lifting up his shot glass. Harry copies him.

The three men around the table all grin like they can't wait, and Harry's pretty sure that right there is where his idea to not get too drunk tonight goes out the window. The second round of shots follows probably far too soon, and around the third, Louis starts leaning into Harry's side, using him as a pillow to lean on, splayed out against the wall as Harry is. Between the fourth and fifth round, when Harry's nursing a pink and orange cocktail he can't for the life of him remember the name of but that tastes of peach and something flowery, they lose Bressie and Horan to the bar and a gaggle of girls. Louis had meant to go with them, trying to pull Harry up from the bench, but they'd somehow gotten tangled in the attempt and fallen back down in a laughing heap. By the time they'd untangled themselves, Horan, Bressie, and the girls had left and Harry had no desire to remove Louis' body any further from his.

They stay where they are, each nursing a drink with another shot waiting for them for whenever they feel like it and Louis blinks up at Harry with glassy blue eyes.

"This whole thing is insane," he says.

"Yeah," Harry agrees. He doesn't really want to think about it, the melancholia the thought brings ever-present at the edge of his mind anyway.

"I'm glad Chloe's back with her dads," Louis says.

Harry huffs a noise that's somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "God, yes," he says.

Louis nods and takes another sip from his drink.

"Like, you were good with her," Harry says, bringing a hand up to squeeze at the nape of Louis' neck. It has Louis' eyes flutter shut for a moment.

"But, her _dads_ , you know?" he adds.

Louis nods again, and smiles up at Harry. "I want kids someday, but I don't want them now," he says.

Harry nods as well. "Yeah, me too."

"Too much of a kid yourself, Harold, for babies," Louis says, and then frowns at the drink in Harry's hand. "I really shouldn't let you drink that."

"I'd like to see you stop me," Harry says, fully aware that here too, he's the taller one of the two of them. "And anyway, this body can take a lot more than mine."

Louis eyes go wide and his ears flush bright red before he shakes his head and bursts into laughter.

"I really don't need to know that," he says.

Harry frowns down at him for a moment, trying to work out what's so funny, but then feels his own cheeks and ears run hot.

"Oh my god, no! Not that! I didn't mean---" he tries to say, but just falls into laughter as well when his stammering only makes Louis laugh harder.

"Not what I meant," he complains half-heartedly when they've somewhat calmed down.

Louis reaches up to pat at his cheek.

"I'm sure," he teases.

"Hey, you've never met me. You don't know what I can take," Harry teases back, cheeks hot.

Louis seems taken aback for a moment, but then laughs again, hand falling down in between them.

"Cheeky," he mumbles.

Harry blows up his cheeks in response, crossing his eyes and probably looking as ridiculous as he feels.

"D'you think we ever will?" Louis asks then, leaning back against the wall and Harry.

"Will what?" Harry asks, going to take another sip from his cocktail only to realise he's finished it off. He reaches for the shot and knocks that back instead.

"Oy!" Louis complains and sets the watered down rest of his own drink down to take his own shot.

"Meet, I meant. D'you think we will? In real life?" Louis asks.

"Oh," Harry says. There's that melancholia again, soaked with alcohol and heavy in his heart.

"I don't know. We'll find out if we ever make it home, I s'pose," he says.

"When we make it home," Louis corrects, brow furrowed into a look far too severe for the way Louis's swaying from side to side.

Harry can't help but snicker when Louis reaches to hold onto the edge of the table.

"D'you know where you live? Can we get you home?" Harry asks.

Louis nods and then groans, clutching his head with the other hand.

"Yeah, we came here from my flat. It's just around the corner," he says.

"Okay, well, I think it's your body that can't really take all that much..." Harry says, leaving the rest hanging between them.

Louis lowers his hand to punch Harry playfully - but a little too-hard - in the stomach and then nods again, though more carefully now.

"Yeah. I think you might be right," he says, "can't all be giants like you."

"Well, be glad you've got this giant around, cause I'm gonna get you home," Harry says, planting both feet firmly on the ground. He hasn't gotten drunk often, but he knows that even when he sits down and feels fine, he'll get woozy when he gets up. And now he's feeling woozy sitting down, so.

"Thanks," Louis says.

"My knight in shining armour. You've got the hair for it. All flowing locks," he adds.

Harry giggles, wrapping an arm securely around Louis' waist so he won't lose him in the crowd of the pub.

Louis grins back and leans in, most of his weight suddenly on Harry, to press his lips to Harry's cheek again. It's a bit close to Harry's mouth, and a bit too wet, but Louis's a bit too drunk for finesse, probably, and Harry's a bit too infatuated to care either way. His heart picks up a few paces though.

"This you's really solid," Louis comments idly, one hand splayed over Harry's chest, eyes fixed on the way his fingers stretch over the thin material of the shirt this-Harry wears almost completely unbuttoned. Harry can't say he's even a little bit inclined to close more of them. For one, it's far too warm to wear any sort of clothes, and for another, Harry has always liked just not wearing clothes, whenever it was an option. For a third, why would he want to bring attention to the fact that Louis' got his hand spread enough that two of his fingers are lying on Harry's skin, somehow even warmer than Harry feels anyway.

"Come on, then," Harry says, instead of saying anything about Louis's size, or the way he feels when Harry pulls him even closer as he moves them through the crowded pub.

Manoeuvring a crowd like this never works without bumping into anyone at all, but Harry clutches Louis close and at least makes sure he doesn't get closer to anyone than he is to Louis, his body a warm line all down his side. Louis' own arm is wrapped around Harry's back as well, holding them together more firmly.

When they make it outside, the air is still sticky; the temperature hasn't really let up, and humidity still hangs heavy in the air. Harry feels like it settles on his skin almost immediately, though that's probably just sweat, making his shirt stick to him awkwardly and making him wish this-Harry hadn't decided to pair his flimsy excuse of a shirt with a solid pair of black jeans. Honestly, what good does the shirt do when he wraps denim around his legs? Absurd.

"We didn't say goodbye," Louis says a propos nothing, twisting around as though he means to go back inside.

"We'll text," Harry says, and pulls him back into his side, making them almost trip over each other's feet.

Louis laughs again.

"Thought you were supposed to be my knight," he says.

"That's what you said," Harry corrects, grin almost permanently etched onto his face.

"So, what, you're actually the villain? Here to kidnap me?" Louis asks, teasing glint in his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

"Exactly," Harry says moving to grab the arm Louis has wrapped around his middle so he can pull it up and around his shoulders. Louis has to reach up, and Harry has to slouch for it to work, but it's still easier this way, to drag them both to wherever Louis' flat is.

"Where to?" Harry asks.

"Your evil lair?" Louis suggests.

"Your flat," Harry says.

Louis giggles to himself and then nods.

"Right, okay. Onwards then, loyal-- steed," he says, interrupted only by a small hiccough.

Harry can't help but laugh at the sound, grip on Louis slackening for a moment, and when Louis turns to smack him, pulling his arm down from Harry's shoulders, he somehow manages to actually lose his balance. Harry makes a grab for him, yelping when he sees Louis tip over, and they both go tumbling down right there on the street.

Only they never meet asphalt.

Where Louis was, there's nothing. Where there was the hot, humid air, there's cool stillness. Where there was the noise and lights of the bar, there's dark and the occasional door.

When Harry's spat out again, the ground still sways underneath his feet.

It's disorienting enough that Harry almost falls over, but his hand meets rough wood when he reaches out to steady himself, keeping him upright.

"Shit," he curses, flinching, when a sharp pain goes through his hand. He can't quite see in the sparse light, but he's relatively certain he just got a splinter stuck in his finger. He brings it up to his mouth to suck the skin soft, recoiling from it when he tastes the grime and salt on it. What on Earth--?

Looking around doesn't tell Harry much at all other than that there's wood below, wood behind, and wood pretty much all around.

And iron bars.

There are iron bars.

He's locked in a cell.

"Shit," he whispers again, with a little more feeling this time.

The floor isn't as filthy as Shakespeare's London had been, but Harry's pretty sure that's just due to the lack of people, not because hygiene is a more pressing concern here on this - ship, he supposes. It keeps swaying, and it's all wood. The taste of salt on his fingers lingers in the air as well, and maybe that's the sea Harry can hear rushing beyond the wood, not just noise inside his own head.

The iron bars are sticky and wet at the same time, and Harry sort of doesn't want to touch them for longer than he absolutely has to, so he steps back from them and looks down at himself instead.

His feet are stuck in heavy boots, but it's not as hot anymore and he's pretty sure the floor's wet anyway, so he's glad for them. The trousers are course, but otherwise not uncomfortable, and his shirt has definitely seen better days. His arms are stronger than he's ever seen them before, and littered with tattoos. An anchor, a rose, a mermaid, birds on his chest, a nautical star on his other arm. Even a rooster. His hair tickled the back of his neck, and when Harry reached back for it he found it tied in a low, short ponytail with a scrap of fabric that felt like it was the same material his shirt was.

Right.

The constant movement of the ship underneath his feet isn't exactly pleasant, but at least he seems to have left the stomach full of alcohol in the last life. Now if only Harry weren't _locked up_ , then maybe this whole thing wouldn't be quite so bad. As it is, Harry's by himself, kinda hungry, definitely thirsty, the salt hangs heavy in the air, and he's got... absolutely nothing to do.

It doesn't seem like that'll change either, so feels around the floor for a slightly less damp spot - there isn't one - and then sits down, settling in to wait. It's not like there's anything else he can do, after all. He wonders where Louis landed, wonders if he's on this ship as well, or somewhere else entirely, some faraway port that they're sailing for. Maybe he'll have to stay in this cell for days, or even weeks, with whatever it is prisoners get fed on an old timey ship. Mouldy bread or something, probably. Harry can only hope they need him vaguely alive for something.

The first moments pass with fear sitting just beneath Harry's skin, but the longer he just sits there with absolutely nothing happening, the more his body gives in to an exhaustion that isn't entirely Harry's own, he thinks. This-Harry doesn't seem to be in the best of shapes, and Harry can't say he's entirely surprised. He _is_ sitting in a cell, after all. That's not exactly promising.

With the exhaustion and the continued lack of interruption comes a strange sort of relaxation, where Harry's eyes keep falling shut while every slightly irregular noise he hears makes him jump out of the strange half-doze he falls into. He's not sure if he actually falls asleep, but he startles upright when there's a loud noise.

Sunlight streams down into the brig when a trapdoor opens overheard, a pair of dark boots and white trousers following. Harry squints up against the light and tries to move back towards the wall of the ship as the person - there's a sword strapped to their side, hanging from a belt wrapped around their red overcoat - makes their way downstairs. Harry can't make out the man's features, but he's making his way down the stairs almost as carefully as Harry tries to make himself vanish into the wall of the ship. He squares his shoulders once he's made his descent and turned towards Harry's cell, but he doesn't seem much more appreciative of approaching Harry's cell than Harry is about being approached.

It's only when the man steps through a thin strip of light that falls down from between two slats of wood or something, his familiar, blue eyes lighting up for a moment, that Harry breathes a sigh of relief.

"Louis," he says.

Louis stops short, but then takes two hasty steps forward to the bars of the cell.

"Harry?" he asks.

"Yes; holy shit, you scared me," Harry says, crossing the cell in three strides and coming to stand in front of Louis.

Louis' eyebrows wander up into his choppy but short hairline.

"Are you a pirate?" Louis asks.

Harry snorts a laugh, but then stops short himself. Is he--? Dear God, he _is_ a pirate, isn't he.

"Are you in the navy?" he asks back, gesturing at the meticulous and complicated looking clothing that Louis's got on. They do look better made than Harry's, at least. Maybe less itchy as well.

"Yeah, I think so," Louis says. "I was sent down to check on you. Make sure you weren't doing anything stupid or so, I suppose."

"What, like escape?" Harry suggests and then laughs. Hopefully the idea is less ludicrous when it comes to this-Harry but Harry himself doesn't know the first thing about... anything involved in this. He's not even sure he could get these boots back on correctly if he took them off. There are at least three too many buckles for him to have to deal with. They fit snuggly, and keep his feet warm and dry, but Harry's not sure he could work them out.

Louis grins back.

Harry reaches for him through the bars, trying to wrap his fingers around Louis' wrist, but Louis pulls it away and takes a step back.

"We're enemies here," Louis says.

"We're alone," Harry points out.

"Someone could come in any moment though," Louis says.

"It'll take them long enough. Trust me, I just watched you do it," Harry says.

Weren't they _just_ drinking together and having fun? Hasn't Louis _just_ kissed Harry's cheek for no particular reason? Hasn't he _just_ commented on the firmness of Harry's chest? Harry's relatively certain it's not less firm here. It's certainly no more hidden.

"Still. We have to... we have to play along," Louis says. "So we don't stick out."

"We-- what? I have no idea where we are, or what I'm doing here. How am I supposed to--?"

"We're pursuing some pirate ship. I think you're part of their crew," Louis says. "That's all I know."

"But--" Harry tries to say, but then the door opens again.

Louis takes another step away from Harry's cell, and Harry takes a few back into it.

"The boy giving you any trouble?" a voice calls.

"No, sir, not at all, sir," Louis answers, back straight as though it could be heard in his voice. Maybe it can, since he suddenly sounds so very different from any Louis Harry has met before.

"Good. Come back up if you're done, I've got another job for you," the man calls down.

"Louis," Harry hisses, moving back towards the cell bars. There has to be something more that Louis can tell him.

But Louis doesn't turn back, just sets a foot onto the lowest step of the stairs up.

The world shifts again. Salt and grime to nothing, and black, and then -- cold.

Cold and wet, and Harry pulls his shoulders up and huddles deeper into the coat he's got on automatically. It's snowing all around him, wind biting at his cheeks and pelting him with snowflakes like they're millions of tiny projectiles. Harry finds himself staring into the boot of a car, two bags sitting inside it. When he looks up there's a cottage, and not much else. The road he must've driven up is slowly vanishing under the snow, and the landscape is hidden behind a cold, stormy wall of grey, ground and sky indistinguishable in the same shade.

Harry grabs the two bags, slams the boot of the car shut and makes his way into the cottage. Even if he was meant to be leaving, there's no way he's actually doing that now.

The cottage is warm and bright when Harry steps inside and closes the door behind himself, so he's guessing he probably wasn't leaving, but arriving. And probably not alone. That'd fit with the two bags as well. He sets them down carefully, but takes a moment to just stay there, shaking the snow off his coat and letting the warmth inside the cottage slowly warm his skin and creep underneath the coat, until he feels like he won't go right back to shivering when he takes it back off. No one comes to greet him, which is a bit odd, if he is indeed here with someone, but Harry won't mind if he's alone and doesn't have to worry about pretending to be someone else for a while.

He doesn't understand Louis' reluctance to even just talk to him, pirate-navy differences or not. That's not who they really _are_ after all. Of course they have to pretend in front of others, but that's a different issue. When it's just the two of them it doesn't matter what life they're stuck in, they're still just Harry and Louis. At least that's how Harry thinks of it.

With a sigh he grabs the two bags, and decides to go looking for the bedroom. There can't be too many rooms to check in a cottage. From the entrance, Harry can see both the kitchen nook and the small table, and a sofa in front of a fireplace. There's a small hallway leading further back and he assumes that's where the bedroom and bathroom are.

He's right. The first door to the left opens into a small but neat bathroom, a toilet, a sink, even a bathtub, all tiled in white. That leaves one other door, and Harry takes a steadying breath. That one'll let him know if he only packed for two, or isn't actually alone here.

He pushes the door open gently with his toes, and lets it swing inwards slowly, revealing a wooden dresser that matches the furniture in the kitchen/living room, and then, when the door opens wider, a king size bed.

A king size bed, and Louis, sat on the beige comforter with crossed legs, looking like he's trying not to look apprehensive. His shoulders drop a little when he makes eye contact with Harry.

"It's you," he says.

Harry only nods and sets down the two weekender bags.

"Yeah," he says.

"I wasn't sure, I just heard someone come in, and..." Louis trails off and Harry nods again. He understands. Finding yourself in a cabin in a snowstorm with a random unknown person is no one's idea of a particularly good time, he's sure.

Harry hovers for a moment and then takes a step back.

"I'll go see if the kitchen's stocked," he says. He's not quite hungry anymore, not the way he was on the ship, but knowing whether or not they have food can't be wrong. And he's not sure what to say to Louis anyway.

Louis nods, but makes no move to get up from the bed or say anything, so Harry turns and goes back to the kitchen. There's canned beans in a cabinet, and rice, and pasta, and even some fresh produce and breakfast things in the fridge, so Harry supposes this-them were planning on a winter holiday here. At least in this life they are obviously at least friends, and Louis won't have to keep up any kind of pretense of being enemies. Who knows who might show up in this snow storm, after all.

Harry sighs to himself and runs a hand over his scowling face, trying to smooth it out.

That's probably overreacting a little. Harry was spooked by finding himself in that cell, but at least he didn't have to interact with anyone but Louis. It's not like he knows in front of what kind of other people Louis was having to keep up the pretense to be a soldier in the navy. He certainly seemed cautious when he came down the steps to Harry's cell. He was obviously not expecting pleasant company either.

But then, a small voice in his head says, _Harry_ was the one in the cell. Surely that's worse. He was possibly sailing to his _death_. Harry really doesn't want to find out what happens if he dies in a life that's not his.

So instead of thinking too much about any of that, he goes about making bacon butties. It's something to do with his hands at least. He'd go soak in the tub, but he's not sure about the water situation in this cottage, so he figures he'd better not. Louis doesn't emerge from the bedroom while he does, and Harry doesn't hear the water come on, so he supposes he stayed in bed.

Harry stares down at the second plate he prepared and decides to just leave them there. Louis is probably capable of making his own, but Harry was doing it anyway and... whatever.

He grabs one plate and makes his way over to the sofa and the fireplace. He hasn't done it often, but he has started a fire in one before, and there are suitable looking slabs of wood in a basket sat beside it, so Harry stacks a few and crumples up a few pages of newspaper to use as kindling. The cover says Friday, 30. 12. 16, which means this-Harry is older than he is again. Not by as much as the married one, maybe, but still. Harry's been older so much, he's almost not even surprised by the changes in his body anymore. Talk about growing up too fast though.

There's a box of long matches in the basket with the wood, so Harry strikes one and holds it to all the crumpled newspaper pages and then sets it down next to a piece of wood that looks like it'd catch fire easily.

Once done he sits down on the carpet in front of the fireplace, watching the flames lick up along the wood, and listening to the telltale cracks and hisses of it spreading. There really isn't anything else to do, after all, in a cottage in a snowstorm with a person who maybe doesn't want to talk to him. Maybe there's a deck of cards somewhere. He could play solitaire.

Harry mulls it over for a few moments, wonders if that'd be too dramatic-pathetic when he could just go talk to Louis himself, but eventually decides it's just the right level of sulking to indulge in while stuck in a cottage in a snowstorm _in another life_.

Whoever owns the cottage does own a pack of cards as well, at least, and an entire shelf in the living room closet full of board games besides. None of those are for someone to play by themselves though, so Harry grabs the pack of cards and settles back down in front of the growing fire. Heat is already spilling out from it, and although Harry's not cold per se, it's still a pleasant sensation, the teasing tickle of warmth on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He shuffles the cards and then lays them out in the formation his grandmother had taught him, feeling weirdly comfortable. Maybe it's the being-alone thing, but something about being here in this moment is more relaxing than anything Harry's experienced since he was taken from his own life. He doesn't have to pretend, and he doesn't have to worry. All he has to focus on are the fire, the bacon butties, and the cards.

He gets into a rhythm of turning cards over and taking bites from his food, and he's on the third round, when he hears Louis shuffle down the corridor.

"Hey," Louis says, hovering at the edge of the hallway when Harry looks up.

"Hey," Harry says, trying to sound friendly. He doesn't want to spook Louis again, whatever it was that did it last time.

Louis smiles, so that's a start.

"Room by that fire for me?" he asks, and Harry nods and scoots over a little, though it's mostly symbolic. There's more than enough space for them both here.

Louis sits down and folds his legs, looking down at his fidgeting fingers in his lap. His fluffy fringe falls down to hang in front of his eyes, and Harry's relatively certain he did that on purpose. This-Harry has relatively short hair, not long enough for it to fall into his face at least, but it's a technique to buy time he's employed plenty before. And since Louis's making him wait, Harry takes a moment to study him. The dusting of stubble on his jaline looks oddly soft, as does the jumper he's wearing. It's a pale blue colour, and Harry's sure it'd make his eyes brighter than Harry knows they are anyway. He's got his thick joggers shoved into his thicker socks, toes curled against the cold.

Harry smiles to himself. Seems Louis, at least this-Louis, gets cold easily.

"I'm sorry about--" Louis says and then breaks off with a sigh.

"I think you were right about what it is that kicks us out of one of these... worlds," he says then, changing tactics.

Harry furrows his brow.

"How do you mean?" he asks.

"Well, what you said in... Hogwarts. About the coming together and apart and such," Louis says.

"But that doesn't work out with-"

"I lied," Louis interrupts and then looks up, face twisted into an apologetic smile.

"About the Grease-world. I lied. I wasn't about to pick you up, I would've... stood you up. If we'd stayed. I think," Louis says.

Harry blinks at him in surprise. It was Louis who asked for that date, why on Earth would he change his mind - and not let Harry know?

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "But, yeah, I think you were right. I was running late and missed the bus, but then I let the next one leave without me, and the next thing I knew I was back in that nothing-place before I popped up in the car with Chloe."

Harry blinks some more.

"Oh," he says.

That doesn't... really make sense, does it?

"Why?" he asks.

Louis huff a shaky laugh and shrugs his shoulders.

"I don't know, exactly, I just... you were... I didn't want to--" he tries, but breaks off with another shaky laugh.

Harry bites his lip. Harry was... what? Louis looks up shyly and shrugs again.

"I didn't want to give you the wrong idea," he says finally, voice small.

Embarrassed heat settles over Harry like a film, lighting up his whole body.

"Oh," he says. Louis _definitely_ knows about Harry's crush. Definitely, definitely, definitely.

"I know you only... asked for that date for the sake of the pretense," Harry says, "I know it wouldn't have been real."

"Yeah," Louis agrees, "I know I shouldn't have, but I sort of... freaked out? I think. It just seemed so... much, suddenly."

Harry laughs a little. "And then in the next one we were married."

Louis huffs a laugh as well. "Yeah," he says.

"But that didn't seem to bother you," Harry says.

Louis shrugs.

"No, I know. Mostly I was focused on Chloe. She needed someone to take care of her and we were there. Everything else didn't really seem very important," Louis says.

That, Harry can understand, so he nods along.

"And it's not that I mind being around you. I do like you," Louis says.

Harry feels the sentence settle warmly in his blood, and bites his beaming grin down to a smile.

"I like you too," he says, because he does. He has a crush on Louis, sure, but he also _likes_ him. Louis seems like a lovely person.

Louis smiles back.

"Thanks, Curly," he says.

They fall into silence for a moment, and Harry catches Louis staring at his empty plate.

"I made bacon butties. There's some in the kitchen for you," he says.

Louis looks up at him and studies him for a moment. Harry's not quite sure how to react to it, so he doesn't, just lets Louis look his fill until his contemplative expression melts into a soft smile.

"I'll be right back then," he says, almost just as softly.

Harry nods and watches him go.

When Louis sits back down, he's got one of the bacon butties already clamped between his teeth, but when he's swallowed that bite he sets the plate down and turns serious eyes on Harry anymore.

"I wasn't sure what was me and what was that world anymore," Louis says.

"What do you mean?" Harry asks.

Louis takes another bite, clearly stalling for time, but Harry lets him. Waits him out and tries not to appear too fidgety.

"Grease. Or the one after. Or any one, really. Cause sometimes, like with the bunny and the spy and the magic thing - I just knew to do things I'd never learned, you know?" Louis says.

Harry nods. Sure, Harry fell when he tried that ice skating routine, but he shouldn't ever have gotten that far into it. There's a strange sort of muscle memory that lingers in these bodies that makes them feel more other than anything else in these worlds. Harry's constantly aware that this isn't his body, that his body can't do these things.

"And I wasn't sure if anything I wanted to do was really me, or someone else's choice, you know? Like that-Louis' feelings for that-Harry lingered and I was acting them out, in a way," Louis goes on.

Harry tilts his head, taking the idea in. That... never really occurred to him. He always assumed that this crush on Louis is his. The feeling doesn't change, whether they're supposed to be married, or enemies, or just going to school together, after all.

"Like. I could tell that you... fancied me a bit. Sometimes," Louis says, cheeks a little red. The heat in Harry's cheeks means he's probably mirroring him.

"And I wasn't sure if that was you or just those Harrys at first either, yeah? And then when we got there and we were _supposed_ to be in love it just... It was confusing," Louis says.

"Oh," Harry says. That does make sense.

"I couldn't tell the difference anymore," Louis says.

Harry nods.

"You could've asked me. I mean, I do... fancy you, yeah. I think that's me," he says, "but I know just because whatever version of you fancies that version of me doesn't mean that's true for actual-you."

Louis sighs and balls his hands to fists for a moment before releasing them.

"Yeah, but see," he says, ducking his head down again so he doesn't have to look at Harry, and Harry can't look at him, "I wasn't worried about you, I was worried about me."

"What?" Harry asks.

"I... I _wanted_ to take you on that date," Louis says.

Harry feels his face slacken in surprise.

"You... what?"

Louis shrugs, peering up at Harry from behind his fringe.

"I wasn't sure if that was me, or... that other me," Louis says.

"But I didn't think it'd just kick us out of that world like that. I thought I'd just make an excuse and have some time to think, and then I could ask again," he adds.

"But you weren't-- you were kissing me at that birthday party," Harry says.

"It was easy to go along with it," Louis says. "I wanted to, and you didn't seem to mind, and we _did_ need to not seem completely awkward around each other."

"Oh," Harry says. That... changes things a bit.

"And when we were at that bar with the bird sanctuary, I didn't mean to get so drunk, but--"

"That's what we were?" Harry asks. Explains why Horan was talking about _birds_ and breaking up a fight he couldn't reach. He was talking about _actual birds_.

"Yes. Did you not know?"

"I just popped up on the way to the bar, I had no idea what was going on," Harry says.

Louis laughs a little.

"I think we all worked at this bird sanctuary. In New Zealand, I think, since it was called Zealandia. Or at least that's what my uniform polo shirt said," Louis explains.

"Oh, cool. I've always wanted to go to New Zealand," Harry says. He supposes he still hasn't technically, but, well. He sort of has. Just had to borrow someone else's life to do it.

Louis smiles at him and then bites his lip, face going tight and nervous.

"I almost kissed you there," he blurts, shoulders tense, but not looking down at his own lap this time.

Harry can only imagine the comical look of surprise on his face.

"You did?" he asks.

"I was really drunk," Louis says. "And you were really... solid."

He's blushing high on his cheeks, and Harry's sure his whole face is probably a little red by now. _Solid_ , Christ. Louis did say that, but is that... is that a _thing_ for Louis? Harry almost wants to ask, but Louis already looks quite tortured over the admission, so he doesn't want to push about that.

The erratic stampede of Harry's heart in his throat does very much want to push something else though.

"Do you... do you still? Want to?" he asks, jaw tight with nerves.

He watches Louis swallow heavily and then nod, just a jerky, tiny movement of his head.

"Yeah, I do," Louis says. "I think that's... I think that's me, not them."

Harry sucks in one harsh breath, and then clamps his lips shut, trying not to react quite so obviously. It's just he can't really help it, heat flooding what feels like every cell of his body, making him warm and cold all over, itching to reach out and touch and do it now. If Louis wants to, and he wants to, why shouldn't they...?

"Do you... now?" Harry asks.

Louis nods.

"Can... can I?" Harry asks.

Louis nods again.

Harry stumbles over another breath, but Louis doesn't comment on it, so Harry reaches an icy cold hand out to take Louis' plate of bacon butties and set it to the side before he shuffles forward, so their folded knees are touching.

"I've never..." _kissed a boy_ he doesn't have to clarify, since Louis already knows.

"Me neither," Louis says, even though Harry already knows that as well. He doesn't know if Louis has thought about it, before all this, or if he's been blindsided by it the same way Harry has. Maybe, if he saw Harry's crush earlier on, maybe he was looking for it in a way that Harry wasn't. Or maybe Harry was just really obvious about it. It doesn't really matter, in the end. What matters is that Louis flinches a bit at the cold touch of Harry's hand, when Harry wraps it around his, but doesn't pull it away. He lets Harry wrap his fingers around his, and holds Harry's hand. He leans in when Harry does, and he tilts his head to accommodate him.

It feels strange, a bit, to do this with an adult body, with one that doesn't belong to Harry. And it feels strange to lean in to kiss the face of a man; not even a boy, someone Harry's age, even though he knows Louis isn't that much older than him, not in real life, and he doesn't look it here either, but it's still... Harry's not expecting the scratch of his stubble, and he knows he's much broader than Louis when he leans into him to chase the feeling.

Louis makes a small noise and Harry leans back again, reigns himself in and lets their lips meet in the middle.

They're kissing like they've never done it before; legs folded and barely touching, only holding one of each other's hands and their lips pressing together mostly chastely.

It's still... it still lights Harry up from the inside, it still makes him feel a little unsteady, it still makes him want to never stop doing this. It's still the best kiss Harry's ever had.

It's Louis who deepens it. Who takes his second hand and wraps it around the nape of Harry's neck to hold him steady, who opens his mouth and begs entrance to Harry's.

But it's Harry who gives Louis what he asks for and then some, who uncrosses his legs and lets go of Louis' hand to wrap his arms around his middle and pull him closer, who presses their chests together, until Louis uncrosses his legs as well, throws them over Harry's thighs and basically settles in his lap.

Harry pulls back to look at Louis for a moment, the bright blue of his eyes, and the pink flush of his cheeks, the tousled fringe and the mouth that already looks quite well-snogged. Harry assumes he looks even worse, what with how his lips tingle from the rasp of this-Louis' beard.

"Come back," Louis says almost immediately, leaning in for another kiss and closing his eyes before their lips even touch.

Harry complies gladly. He doesn't want to stop kissing Louis either.

This body reacts slower than Harry's own does. He knows if someone sat on his lap and snogged him like this, he'd be, well, _interested_ in the proceedings fairly easily, sixteen year old hormones and everything, but here the arousal he can feel simmering in his belly feels a lot slower. More subdued. It's not that it's not there, or not intense, it's just... less pressing. It's more the kind of thing that makes him smooth his hands up and down Louis' back, and less the kind he has to keep from rutting up his hips immediately. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just... less immediate.

Louis' hands for his part wander into Harry's hair, even though there's a lot less of it here than in the past few worlds, blunt nails scratching over Harry's scalp, sending tingles down his spine and stoking that simmering heat in his belly. When Louis presses closer, Harry can feel the solid length of cock push against him. It makes him whine a surprised little noise, and it makes Louis pull back.

"Sorry," he says, but Harry just holds him close and presses him closer. It's a new sensation, but it's not one he minds.

"No need," he says, "it's okay."

He doesn't recognise his own voice in this moment, rumbling deeper than he's ever heard it.

Louis hesitates for only moment and then leans in again, kiss picking up right where they left off.

Harry lets his hands come around Louis' body to the front and slips the tips of his fingers underneath his soft jumper.

"Okay?" he mumbles into Louis' lips.

Louis nods.

"Okay," he mumbles back, pecking teasing little kisses to Harry's lips while Harry slips his hands underneath Louis' jumper fully and lets them settle on his warm, bare hips.

"You can touch me too, if you want," Harry says and then captures Louis' lips in another longer kiss.

Louis takes the opportunity and racks Harry's own jumper up. The colder air makes Harry shudder as it hits his heated skin, but not as much as Louis' nails do when they teasingly follow the line of Harry's spine. Maybe that's a thing for Louis, nails. It ramps up the heat between them even as Harry feels his skin goosebump from the cool air, and he slides his hands around Louis' hips to grab his bum without thinking about it.

"Still good," Louis mumbles, and tilts his hips back into Harry's touch a little.

Harry takes the opportunity and guides Louis' hips to roll down against his, pulling tiny gasps from both of them.

"Good?" he asks, cheeks twitching a little.

Louis pinches his back, but he nods.

"Good," he says.

They don't really say anything after that, just hold on to each other and inexpertly rut their hips together. It's a bit uncomfortable, in the trousers Harry's wearing, but he doesn't think he could get naked here. Not in this body and not... not right now. It's easier like this, with his eyes closed and Louis wrapped around him, with Louis lips hovering by his and huffing hot, wet breaths against his mouth as he ruts down to meet Harry's hips. It's easier to just keep going, to let it build and not think about it.

Louis makes only a hurt little noise, high-pitched and sudden, when he stills and then shudders in Harry's arms, hips hitching back and forth still to ride out his release. It seems important, somehow, not to be too loud about this, and Harry bites down on his lip and tries to keep his breathing shallow and quiet.

Louis kisses his lips and his cheek and his chin and then his lips again, and pulls one arm from around Harry's shoulders to reach down between them.

"Please," Harry huffs, cheeks already hot and feeling hotter when he leans his forehead on Louis' shoulder and watches him pop the button on Harry's trousers. Louis' fingers are cold when they reach in to knead at Harry's cock, but it still punches Harry in the gut with how intimate it feels, with how much he already wants to do it again, even before it's properly over.

Not that it takes long from there. Louis doesn't even have time to do anything other than give Harry's cock a clumsy two or three squeezes, Harry doesn't even know if he wanted to do more, before Harry shoves his face into Louis' neck and spills his release into his underwear, and possibly onto Louis' hand. It's the second thought that makes his mouth latch onto the skin of Louis' neck, pulling a shiver from him when he grazes the skin with his teeth and sucks a quick mark into it. It'll fade soon, probably, but when Harry pulls away a little and pants hotly as he waits for his heartbeat to calm down, the skin in front of his eyes is pinked up and shiny with his spit.

For a few moments there's only Harry's heavy breathing and the crackling of the fire.

Then Louis pulls his hand out of Harry's underwear and looks down at his messy fingers before looking around. He doesn't seem to want to get up, so Harry leans over and grabs another page of the newspaper to wipe his hand off with.

"I should wash that off," Louis says, softly.

Harry doesn't say anything back, but wraps his arms around Louis' middle again.

Louis doesn't attempt to get up.

"I wish I could do that with you. Real life you, I mean," Harry says, voicing the thought before he's even fully grasped it in his head. It feels melancholy, the thought. It's not that he doesn't think this was real, it was their intentions and their feelings that made them want to do that, but he wants to do it with his body too. He wants to know if the real Louis sounds like this, feels like this, tastes like this. Or how he's different.

Louis sighs and cards his clean hand through Harry's hair, lifting Harry's face up to meet his gaze with a finger under his chin.

"What if we can't," he says.

"How do you mean?" Harry asks.

"What if we find each other in every world but the one we're from. What if we're not from the same world?" he says.

Harry frowns.

"Why would you say that?" he asks.

"I'm just putting it out there. It's possible. Apparently everything is! What if we work out how to get home and then we... then we never see each other again," Louis says.

Harry can almost feel himself deflate. Is that why these worlds seem to push them together? Why they're here in the first place? Because it's the only way they can be? But why would that matter? Harry was perfectly content before he met Louis. He has his family and his friends, and he's going to audition for X-Factor. Sure, he learned something new about himself by meeting Louis, but it's safe to assume he would have anyway. Much as he likes Louis, he doesn't _need_ to know him, surely?

Louis leans in to give him another kiss, lingering and sweet, but close-mouthed.

Harry knows what he's going to say before he does, because it sits heavy in his mind as well.

"I want to go home," Louis says. _I'd choose home over you if I had to._

The world falls away and Harry almost wants to laugh at it.

When he's spat out he's stood, spine straight, arms behind his back, in a giant corridor, looking down a flight of white marble stairs covered in a red, thick carpet. Giant paintings hand on the walls, and glittering chandeliers dangle from the ceiling.

"Harry," a low voice scolds, and Harry looks to his side, finding he's stood beside Robin.

Robin, who's stood just as straight, regal in velvet with gold stitching, a full beard on his face that Harry has never seen and an actual crown perched on his full head of hair.

He--

Robin--

So that means--

Harry almost wants to laugh, but at the raise of Robin's eyebrow, the one that's very familiar, he doesn't, and turns back to the staircase and the door beyond it.

"I understand that you're nervous," Robin says, "but this is important. We have so much depending on this."

Harry nods curtly. They're obviously awaiting the arrival of someone very important.

"You know I wish things were different," Robin says.

Dread settles in Harry's stomach. That sounds ominous.

"I know," Harry says, low and trying for reassuring. His voice sounds younger here, and his body doesn't feel quite as sturdy as it had it the last few lives. There aren't any mirrors around to surreptitiously glance into, and he can't exactly examine himself now, so he supposes the question of how old he is will have to wait.

He wonders if Louis really _is_ a stablehand somewhere and resolves to find out as soon as he can.

The door opens then, and a man dressed in white and navy blue steps inside.

"Announcing His Royal Highness, Prince Louis of Yorkshire, and His Royal Highness, Lord Marcus of Derbyshire," he says.

Harry barely has time to try and wrap his mind around that, before the man has dutifully stepped to the side and in walk a man almost as finely dressed as Robin, and, at his side, Louis.

Harry's breath heart catches in his throat at the sight of him, dressed in the finest clothes he has ever seen, even if they're incredibly old fashioned and look as though they were plucked straight out of a period drama. His coat is a regal blue, not the same one the announcer person wore, but a few shades darker, almost purple. It's trimmed with gold and his hair is neatly combed away from his face, a circle of gold sat on his hair like it belongs there. Harry can feel the weight of a similar piece of regalia on his own head, but he just feels ridiculous for it.

Louis doesn't look ridiculous. He certainly doesn't look like a stableboy.

"Lord Marcus. Your Royal Highness," Robin greets them, voice booming. He inclines his head in the barest of salutations, and Harry doesn't know if it's just because he can't let the crown on his head slip or if it's because he seems to be, you know, a king.

"Your Majesty," Lord Marcus greets, bowing at his neck.

"And Your Royal Highness," he says as he bows to Harry.

Harry can barely keep his eyes from widening, flicking his gaze to Louis, who seems just as struck by the weirdness of all this as he is.

Robin and Lord Marcus seem to be looking at them too, so Harry inclines his head to Marcus the way he had seen Robin do and then to Louis as well.

"Lord Marcus, Your Royal Highness. Welcome," he says.

Lord Marcus smiles, so he figures he did well, and chances a glance at Robin. Robin is smiling too.

"Thank you," Louis replies, inclining his head back at them. "Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness."

"Come, I'll have you escorted to your rooms. You can get settled in before dinner," Robin says.

"Thank you, Sire," Lord Marcus says.

Another man dressed in the same uniform the announcer person had been steps forward and bows before them before gesturing for Lord Marcus and Louis to follow him.

Once they're out of sight, Robin relaxes a bit and puts a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Well done, Harry," he says. "That wasn't so terrible, was it?"

"No," Harry says and looks over at him with a smile.

"I know it's... old-fashioned, this way of allying us with another kingdom," Robin says and starts walking.

Harry doesn't say anything, hoping that Robin will go on by himself.

"And I know it's not fair on you, especially not given your sister's arrangement, but, please, it's not personal," Robin says. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course," Harry says. Whatever it is, Harry can't imagine that Mum and Robin would single Gemma out as a favourite too much. They never have at home at all, and he can't really imagine it being any other way.

"It's not that we're looking to punish you, it just happened the way it did. If Gemma weren't already married, it'd most likely be her in your place," Robin goes on.

Gemma's _married_ here? A princess, and married? A smile twitches over his lips. If there's one thing Harry can't imagine Gemma in the role of, it's a married princess. Hosting tea parties and parading around in pretty dresses all day.

It's only after that thought that he puts together the rest. _Allying themselves with another kingdom_ and _marriage_ in the same conversation can really only mean one thing, can't it. Harry's supposed to marry Louis. For politics.

"I know, Robin," Harry says, mind racing.

"Your mother and I love you just as well as your sister, and wish you had the same freedom to marry as you choose that she did," Robin says.

When Harry looks over at him his face looks heavy, like Mum and he have been looking at this problem from all the angles they could and not found a better solution than this one. Harry reaches out a hand to him, resting it on his arm.

"I know," he repeats, "I love you just as much, and I know you wouldn't ask this of me if it weren't necessary."

Robin smiles at him proudly, albeit a little sadly, and continues walking. He doesn't say anything else, and Harry doesn't attempt to either. What is he supposed to say after all?

"At least Prince Louis is as pretty as his portraits," Robin teases finally, coming to rest in front of a double door.

Harry looks at him, a little scandalised.

Robin laughs.

"I know you noticed," Robin says, "I saw the look on your face when he walked in."

"I..." Harry says, unsure how to go on, and feeling the tips of his ears run hot.

Robin claps a hand on his shoulder.

"No worries, he seemed quite struck by you as well," he says, "maybe this'll all be to everyone's advantage after all."

Harry smiles.

"Yeah, maybe," he says.

Robin smiles back.

"I'll leave you to your own devices until supper, then," Robin says, and, with a final squeeze to Harry's shoulder, turns away.

Harry watches him walk down the corridor and turn a corner, and then turns to the double doors he's been dropped off in front of. He assumes this is his room then.

Pushing open the door, he finds it's less of a room than a set of rooms.

They all have high ceilings, equally high windows that let the fading sunlight stream into the open rooms. There's a one with a set of sofas, a dining room, one with a desk that appears to be a study, a library stacked with shelves and more books than Harry thinks he could ever read, and finally a large, airy room with a folding screen and the largest bed Harry has ever seen. Harry runs his hand along the walls by the side of the bed, remembering something he'd heard in history class, or seen in a film or something, and finds a door handle disguised as one of the wooden, golden decorative panels on the wall. Pulling the door it's connected to open he finds a small bathroom - small only in comparison to the other rooms, as it still houses a large bathtub, and even another set of sofas, as though Harry was going to have company while having a bath. Company that doesn't share his bath, at that.

There's a mirror as well, though it's not like one Harry's seen before, and Harry uses the moment to study his own reflection. His hair is tied back neatly with a soft-to-the-touch ribbon, though it curls a little in this world as well. That's something all Harrys, and all their hairstyles seem to have in common. His hair just won't lie quite as flat as it did when he was a child anymore. He's younger here, though older than he is in real life. Harry can't quite tear his eyes away from the slight, golden crown that sits nestled into his hair.

This is _absurd_. How can Harry, any Harry, be a _prince_?

"Sir?" a voice interrupts his musings, and he startles and whirls around.

"I didn't mean to startle you, sir, but would you like that bath you ordered earlier?" the boy, he seems a little older than Harry, asks.

"Yes," Harry says. "Yes, thank you."

The boy nods at him and then waves in a few servants, all carrying large jugs of steaming water. Harry watches them for a moment, until the boy steps closer to Harry and takes the crown off his head, setting it down on the counter the mirror is standing on.

Harry startles a bit, and the boy smiles kindly.

"I apologise, sir, I didn't mean to startle you," he says, and then eases the jacket Harry is wearing off his shoulders.

Right. Harry's getting help undressing. While a line of boys are carrying water into the room for his bath. Right. Harry can deal with that.

"It's alright," Harry says, and lets the boy continue to loosen buckles, and buttons and ties. Harry never knew there were so many layers to these kinds of clothes, but he absolutely understands why they fell out of fashion. Impressive as it may look, jeans and a t-shirt are far more comfortable than this get-up. Even a suit, or a tuxedo, would be far less hassle.

The boy folds all the clothes he takes off Harry quickly, but neatly, setting them down in a stack on the counter next to the crown.

"So, how did it go?" he asks, easing the trousers down Harry's legs once the tub is full and it's just the two of them.

"It went well, I think," Harry says.

The boy laughs, a little more freely than Harry would've expected.

"Is he actually as fit as his portraits make him out to be?" he asks.

Harry is startled into a laugh, and accepts the hand the boy offers him to help him into the bathtub that stands almost in the center of the room, on clawed feet.

"Yeah, he's... stunning," Harry says, blaming the heat in his cheeks on the heat of the water. It's hotter than Harry prefers it to be, but he supposes it'll cool down fast enough.

The boy laughs.

"Well, good to know Lord James wasn't lying then," he quips.

Harry grins.

"Good to know indeed."

"Always important to know your subjects aren't making things up to your face," the boy teases.

Harry laughs again. That's probably a more serious problem than they make it out to be right here, but he can't even begin to wrap his head around all that, so he thinks he might as well laugh.

"Speaking of which, once you've got all of Yorkshire at your disposal, you should make me an Earl of something. Or at least a Baron," the boy says, though the grin on his face seems to indicate he doesn't really expect that of this-Harry.

"Lord Edward has a ring to it, don't you think?" he teases, grin as bright as his ginger hair.

"Magnificent, Lord Edward," Harry teases back.

Edward winks at Harry and grabs the stack of clothes and then vanishes through another hidden door in the wall of the bathroom that Harry supposes the water was carried in through, and Edward appeared from in the first place, but he hadn't really been paying close enough attention then.

Harry leans back against the rom of the tub, making sure the hair that Edward left tied in its ribbon doesn't hang down into the water and closes his eyes for a moment.

This world's Louis and Harry need to get married, for political reasons. And much as the last world where they were married was lovely, and much as Harry's whole body heats with more than just the water when he thinks about the kiss they shared not too long ago, they both want to go home. They'll have to come up with a way to get home.

Edward returns only a short while after he left, a new stack of clothes on his arm that he sets down onto the counter before he comes to actually sit with Harry and tells him stories about people Harry doesn't know, but that entertain him anyway.

Harry doesn't get to soak for too long, the water turning cold as quickly as he'd feared, and when Harry's fingers start to prune on top of that, Edward helps him back out of the tub before grabbing a piece of cloth definitely not as soft as the towels Harry's used to, and rubs his body dry. Harry tries not to blush through it, because he's sure Edward has done this for this-Harry plenty of times before, and this-Harry wouldn't be as fazed by the royal treatment as Harry is, but it's just... weird. To let someone else dry you off and then rub your whole body with a flowery smelling oil. Its intimate. It's not something you'd let just anyone do.

Harry supposes Edward isn't just anyone to this-Harry either, has probably been serving him since he was old enough to, but it's still strange, the whole concept of having actual, real life servants.

Edward keeps up the chatter all through getting Harry dressed for supper, and then actually brushes and braids parts of his hair. By the time he settles the crown back onto Harry's head, Harry feels like he could maybe get used to this kind of treatment - if it weren't for the whole marriage alliance part and all the responsibility that comes with it. Harry has no desire for those.

Another man comes to collect him for dinner, walking just half a step in front of and two steps to the side of him, leading Harry without making it seem like he's doing it.

The dining hall - and it really is a hall - he's led to is a lot larger than the party of four really needs. Harry wonders briefly where his mum is, but supposes he must be busy, or maybe on a trip somewhere to not be here, when her son's marriage is apparently supposed to be negotiated. Robin, Lord Marcus, and Louis area already seated, when Harry joins them, and only Lord Marcus and Louis rise to greet him with a little bow. Harry bows back, and sits. Though they all seem polite, dinner is still a somewhat tense affair, Louis and Harry too surprised by their surroundings to offer anything other than the occasional casual agreement. Robin and Lord Marcus don't seem to be too surprised by their behaviour though, probably chalk it up to the awareness of their impending nuptials. The meal lasts for seven courses, but when it's over it still feels, despite the stilted conversation, like it's been over too soon. Maybe just because Harry didn't really get a moment to actually speak to Louis.

Breakfast the following morning is much the same, stilted and awkward, until Robin says, "I'm sure Prince Henry won't object to showing Prince Louis our gardens, if he wishes to see them? They're stunning this time of year, and our preliminary talks won't be all that interesting to sit in on."

"Of course," Harry says immediately. "If Prince Louis wishes it."

Louis shoots him a very brief look like he's not at all impressed with Harry's deference. Harry tries not to smile too obviously.

"It'd be my honour and pleasure," Louis says, demurring as expertly as if he'd actually been brought up to do it.

Robin smiles proudly at them.

"Then let’s reconvene over tea at a later hour," he says.

Harry inclines his head in a nod, and Louis does the same.

When all the dishes are served, Harry politely excuses himself, and waits for Louis to join him, before leading him out into the corridor.

"Do you even have the faintest idea where the gardens are?" Louis murmurs lowly.

"I say we find a staircase and go down. That seems a good start," Harry murmurs back.

Louis nods and falls into step beside Harry.

"So... not a stable boy, I see," Harry says then.

Louis bumps his shoulder into Harry's.

"Still not as posh as you," he insists.

"I think we're about exactly as posh as each other, here," Harry says, laughing a little.

Louis rolls his eyes.

"This-me, maybe. This me is also on some sort of political peace talk or something," he says.

"Oh. Did... did Lord Marcus not mention anything more last night?" he asks.

Louis shakes his head.

"No, did you find out anything?" he asks.

"Er, yeah, I... yeah," Harry says, fidgeting a bit.

"Is it very bad," Louis asks, brow furrowed a little.

"No, not bad, as such," Harry says, throwing a sideways glance at Louis.

"But? You're fidgeting," Louis says.

"This-you-and-I are supposed to get married. To ally the kingdoms," Harry says.

Louis' eyes bug.

"Seriously?"

"Yep," Harry says.

"Wasn't expecting that, to be honest," Louis says.

"Me neither. But Robin was teasing me about you being pretty and maybe enjoying being married after all, so..." Harry says, drawing a short laugh from Louis.

"Well, he's not wrong. I look extremely princely in all this strange getup," Louis says.

Harry smiles at him and winks.

"You do. A regular Prince Charming, come to sweep me off my feet," he teases.

Louis nudges Harry with his shoulder again.

"Think you're a bit too tall for me to sweep you anywhere, but I'll give it a go, if you want," he says.

Harry laughs, and turns down a staircase.

"I think I'm fine where I am, but thanks. I appreciate the offer," he says.

"Just let me know if you change your mind. It'll be proper romantic and everything, two princes embracing in the sunshine, surrounded by roses, or whatever it is you've got in your royal gardens," Louis says with a grin.

"Hopefully at least one large tree to hide behind and snog," Harry says.

"Ooh, kissing up against a tree? How cliché and romantic," Louis teases.

"That was actually my first kiss," Harry says, turning to grin at Louis.

"Was it really?" Louis asks with a laugh, grabbing Harry's wrist to pull him down a corridor.

"Yep, it was. That's what happens when you grow up in a tiny village in Cheshire. There's lots of trees and not lots of other places to kiss a girl without everybody knowing about it," Harry says.

"You little minx, how old were you?"

"Like eleven, or twelve," Harry says.

"Not bad, not bad, little one," Louis teases, and then tacks on, "So let's go find a tree."

They do find the gardens, and, eventually, a tree. There's quite a lot of ground to cover in the royal gardens and the parts immediately surrounding what can only be called _the castle_ are all flower beds and swirly low hedges making intricate designs, but further out it's more like a park, pebbled paths through planes of grass with occasional trees, almost as though it had just happened that way. Harry's relatively certain it didn't, but it doesn't much matter to him once he finds a tree big enough to push Louis up against and seal their mouths together again.

"Not very princely of you," Louis teases, though he's clutching at the fabric around Harry's waist, holding him close.

"Not a prince," Harry says, and goes back to kissing. It's strange, to think that their first kiss in the wintery cottage wasn't that long ago, and this, in some ways, feels like they're picking up where they left off. But it also feels like a first kiss, because Harry's never kissed Louis in this body, and a last kiss, because Harry's not going to be kissing Louis in this body for long, ideally.

"So, do you think you were right?" Louis mumbles, when Harry bends his neck to trail kisses along along Louis' jawline.

"About the worlds changing when we separate, I mean?" he adds.

Harry hums distractedly.

"Maybe," he says.

"Cause I was thinking--"

"Then I'm doing it wrong," Harry interrupts, and gets a pinch he barely feels through all the layers for it.

"I was thinking - what if we just separate everywhere we land, until we get back home?" Louis says.

"What, go through all the options until we're back where we belong?" Harry asks.

"Yeah," Louis says.

His crown's about to fall off his head, and he's wearing blue again, though it's more turquoise than purple today. He looks well-kissed, and Harry would actually like to get back to that, but what Louis's saying makes sense. It is, at least, more of a plan than they've had so far.

"So how do we separate in a world where we're supposed to marry?" he asks.

Louis rolls his eyes.

"We don't get married," Louis says.

"Right," Harry says, blushing a bit. That is both obvious and simple.

"But won't that have ramifications for the people who live here? The people who depend on this-Louis-and-Harry to go through with this?" Harry points out.

Louis looks at him shrewdly, an amused smile quirking his lips.

"Did you get a dose of prince brain with this body? Are you actually suggesting we stay here so whatever may happen won't happen?" Louis asks.

"I mean, no..." Harry says.

"We don't even know what happens once we're gone. This-Louis-and-Harry can still do the marriage thing. Or maybe this isn't even real. Or maybe they can find another way. But I can't stay here and be kings with you. I want to go home," Louis says.

Harry nods.

"Yeah, me too. I want to go home."

Louis's shoulders sag a little.

"So, you're not... offended, that I said that? Last time?" he asks.

Harry shakes his head.

"No. I like you, but none of this is real. If I don't get to see you again to have something _real_ again, then that's worth it, I think," he says.

Louis nods.

"Yeah. I don't like any of this either. I mean, I'm sure this-Louis didn't chose to be a prince either, but absolutely nothing about this was my choice, you know? Not even the clothes I'm wearing, or the way my hair's cut. I know that's maybe silly, but--"

"No, it's not. I totally get what you mean," Harry cuts in.

Louis nods again.

"So, no wedding?" he says, holding out his hand.

Harry doesn't hesitate, but grabs it firmly.

"No wedding," he says.

The world falls away, and Harry grins into the dark.

When he's spat out again, he's sat on a bench in a locker room, bent over as if to tie a pair of cleats. He'd recognise the shin guards and socks almost everywhere, even if he's never worn a full footie uniform himself. He has to hold back a laugh.

"Hurry up, Styles!" someone calls.

"Be there in a second!" he calls back, and then pretends to tie his shoes until the locker room is cleared. He doesn't bother to take anything with him, just gets up and walks out of the locker room - not in the direction of the field, but back out into the corridor.

He doesn't get further than a couple of steps until he knows he made the right choice and is whisked away again, back into the cold nothing and then into another corridor, this one belonging to a university, judging by all the student-age looking people walking about. He's got a few books in his arm, one of which says "Music Composition" so he figures he's taking a music course at university. He kind of likes that, but that's neither here nor there. There are universities in real life as well, and in two more years he can go, if he wants to.

Before he can make a decision as to what to do, someone grabs his arm and drags him backwards.

Harry yelps as he almost trips over his own feet, and Louis laughs.

"That explains why you exited the footie world so quickly," he says.

Harry rolls his eyes.

"So what are you running away from?" he asks.

"I'm not running," Louis says, head held high.

"Sorry, what are you _power-walking_ away from?" Harry asks.

Louis laughs.

"I'm supposed to be in a rehearsal for a performance and apparently I play the bassoon. I don't even know what a bassoon looks like!" he says.

Harry laughs, and twists his hand free, taking Louis' in his.

"Well, let's see how skipping class and rehearsal works out for us and go have a coffee," he suggests.

Louis looks over at him and grins.

"Let's," he says.

They're whisked away again. That's the strangest sensation, Harry thinks, holding on to something or someone and being so immediately taken away from it as though it never existed in the first place. It's what makes a tiny bit of fear pool in the pit of his stomach every time it happens.

"Mr. Styles," someone says when he falls back into a world again, "Mr. Tomlinson is already on his way, we apologise for the delay."

Harry looks up from his phone and makes himself frown. Perfect excuse.

"I'm sorry, I simply can't wait any longer," he says.

The woman seems clearly taken aback.

"But, Mr. Styles--"

"I'm terribly sorry, but I have a family emergency to attend to. We'll have to re-schedule," he says.

"Mr. Styles you know it could be _months_ \--"

"Then he really should know better than to be late. Anyway, send my regards," he says, and walks out.

Or at least intends to. He doesn't even reach the door before he's whisked away again, a moment of cold fear and nothing, and then a sunny meadow filled with flowers, actually holding Louis' hands.

"Oops," Harry says and shrugs with a grin stretching his face.

"Hi," Louis laughs, and takes a step closer for a short kiss.

Harry's grin only stretches wider.

They're wearing these white ancient times things. Togas? Tunics? One of those. Harry can feel his hair curl around his ears, and Louis' is wilder and fluffier than he's seen it in a while as well. They're both tanned as though they spend a lot of their time outdoors.

"How on Earth do we separate in an open field?" Harry asks.

"I walk one way, you walk the other?" Louis suggests with a shrug.

"Alright," Harry says, and then pulls Louis in for another kiss. He doesn't really want to consider what'll happen if they get home and Louis is right - if they can only know each other in other worlds. Any one of these kisses could be the last, but Harry knows, in his heart of hearts, that it's still the right choice. He likes Louis, and there's an entire butterfly farm in his stomach excitedly fluttering for him, but it's not the deep-seated ache in his heart for his family, and his _life_ back.

"Bye then," Louis says, and drops Harry's hands, turning on his heel to stride across the meadow in the direction of a forest.

Harry watches him go for a few moments and then turns the other way to start walking himself. He takes a step, two, three. Then ten, eleven, twelve. He stops counting at twenty when he hears a yelp behind him, whirling around to see Louis fall to the ground.

"Louis!" he calls, setting off to sprint across the uneven ground. The grass and flowers that had tickled his bare legs just moments ago don't even register now, running across the meadow until he falls down onto the ground beside Louis' collapsed body, shivering and staring up at Harry frantically.

"S-snake," he says, clutching at his throat as though he's having trouble breathing.

Harry looks him over and sees the angry red splotch on his leg, two tiny drops of blood in the center of it where the snake's teeth must have pierced his skin.

"No, no, no, come on, don't do this," Harry says, looking back up at Louis' face that is turning an alarming shade of ashy white.

Louis grabs Harry's tunic with one hand, the other one weakly patting at his swelling throat. His eyes are wide with panic, and Harry can't even hear his heart race, or the blood rush in his ears over the icy cold claw of fear that seizes every part of him, makes him ghost his hand over Louis' throat, over the snake bite, as though there's anything he could do.

"Hang in there, I'll-- I'll get you help," he says, shoving both arms underneath Louis to lift him up.

Louis' heavy; they're both young here and Harry isn't much bigger than Louis, but he can't think about that now. They're still in a meadow of wildflowers, no one else in sight anywhere, and a part of Harry knows that this isn't going to work, he's never going to make it in time, but the world isn't stopping, it's not changing, and Harry can't give up. He can't.

So he puts one foot in front of the other, mumbles soothing nonsense to Louis and walks. He continues walking even when Louis' body slackens, when his hand drops from where it had been holding on to Harry. Walks until he glances down, and sees Louis' head hanging back, eyes open, no breath raising his chest, and his knees buckle.

"No," he whispers, "no, no, no, no, no."

His hand shakes as he brushes Louis' hair out of his face, slaps his cheek gently.

"No, you can't-- you can't-- I'm still here," he says, eyes stinging and wet.

Why is he still here? This can't be how this ends. He can't be stuck here, far from home, _without_ Louis, that just _can't_ be it.

"Please don't. Come back," he whispers, one hand wrapped around one of Louis', the other still petting his hair.

Harry can't look away from his empty eyes.

"Don't leave me alone, I can't do this alone, please, please, please, come back, come back," he begs, tears finally spilling from his eyes and obscuring his vision.

His spine gives and he sinks forward, forehead resting on Louis' still-warm stomach, still clutching his hand as though if Harry holds on to him tightly enough he won't-- won't--

"Please, give him back, give him back, please, please, please," he mumbles, over and over, the words blurring together in his mind.

He can't-- he can't be here without Louis. He doesn't belong here. He's not supposed to be here Louis's not supposed to be here, not like this, not lifeless and unmoving.

Harry's sobs hiccough out of him unbidden, heart and stomach cold with the panicked realisation that he's alone, completely alone in this world. And this is worse than the first few times, worse even than when he thought Louis was out to hurt him somehow and he was afraid of him catching up. Losing Louis like this after he got to laugh with him, and hold him, and kiss him - that's worse.

"Please, give him back," he mumbles, voice hoarse from crying.

Darkness falls around him abruptly and Harry's heart soars, looks up so quickly he's a bit dizzy, but even before his eyes focus again he knows this isn't that darkness. He can still feel Louis' hand in his.

"You do not belong here," a voice booms, seemingly coming from everywhere around, not echoing in the large, dark room, but emanating from every nook and cranny of it. It's almost as though Harry can hear it inside his head as well.

"But he is mine," the voice says again and just like that Louis' body vanishes.

Harry gasps and grabs for the thin air as though his eyes might be playing tricks on him.

"No, please, give him back!" he says, looking around wildly for the source of the voice.

"Yes, so you've been asking," the voice says. "What makes you think you have any claim to what is mine?"

"Please," Harry says again, for lack of anything else to say. The tear tracks on his face haven't even dried yet, and though more tears have been shocked out of him for the moment, he's not convinced they're not going to start again if he's actually stuck here, in this bizarre, apparently somewhat magical world, _without_ Louis.

"Have you not had many days with him? Many adventures?" the voice asks.

"Yes, but--"

"Yet you dare ask for more?"

A few tears spill over again.

"Please, I just want to get us home," he says.

Even though his eyes have become acclimated to the darkness now, he still can't make out who's talking, until the shadows before him seem to start to... move. Solidify. Harry scrambles back a bit, staring as the darkness wraps itself around a core he can't make out until there's a man standing in front of him, taller than he's ever seen, hair sleek and falling down below his knees. There's a black crown like circlet sitting on his head, and his robes are so black it's like the darkest shadows have arranged themselves around him. Which is, essentially, what happened.

"You have lost him, young one. Return to the surface," he says.

His face, though distant and hard, seems at the same time somehow infinitely kind.

Harry can feel tears threatening to start falling again and swallows against them reflexively.

"No, please. He doesn't belong here either," he says.

"He has died," the man says, piercing Harry's erratic heart with a dagger of ice, "I rule the dead. He is mine now."

"Please," Harry repeats. If there's magic in this world, if this man _rules the dead_ , then there's a chance, a tiny, tiny chance that he can have Louis back. "Please, we're not supposed to be here, we're-- we're not part of your world, any part of it."

The man in front of him stops short and moves closer to Harry, leaning in to look at him more closely.

If Harry could breathe under the intense scrutiny he's sure he'd whimper.

"You are... foreign to me," he says contemplatively.

A wild flood of relief rushes through Harry.

"But your boy has died in this world, and so he belongs to me," the man says, "I cannot restore him without upsetting the balance."

For a moment Harry wants to suggest he send them on to the next world, that there _is_ a Louis in this world to take Louis' place, that the balance won't be upset, but then he thinks of this-Harry. They landed holding hands in that meadow. This-Harry would definitely be devastated by Louis' loss as well. Can Harry really put that on him?

"Please," he says again. "There has to be something."

The man turns his head as though listening to someone and then, almost the same way the shadows had compacted to give shape to this man, light blooms in the middle of the darkness and reveals a woman, dressed in the softest spring green, flowers woven into the hair that spills down her back in waves. It's not quite as long as the man's, but she is just as awe-inspiring. She wraps her arms around one of his, and leans in to whisper in his ear. Harry can't hear a sound, but he can see her lips move.

"My wife is moved by the emotion in your heart," the man says, "and offers to give a bit of her life for your love, if you give her something in return."

"What?" Harry asks immediately, hands balled to fists on his thighs, kneeling before the couple.

"A song," the man says, "or a poem. My wife delights in music but cannot indulge in it here. Her voice is not suited to this place."

Harry blinks, startled. He was sure it was going to be something dreadful, like all his happiest memories, or all the years of his life after he turns twenty, or something along those lines.

A song.

A song he can manage.

He stands on shaky legs and wipes the soot and dirt from his no-longer-white clothing. His hands are shaking, and he knows his voice will as well, but he wipes the tear tracks from his face, probably leaving streaks of dirt behind, and takes a few calming breaths. He's been practicing a song for weeks now, so he _can_ do this. He'll sing and he'll get Louis back, and they'll go home. And if he never sees Louis again, it'll be enough to know that he's safe and sound.

He takes a deep breath and starts.

"Isn't she lovely, isn't she wonderful."

He's not going to be doing the whole song for the X-Factor judges panel, probably, but he practiced all of it anyway, and in exchange for Louis' life he sings it all, from the first note to the last. His voice is raw, and burns in his ears and throat as he presses on, but he does it anyway. Closes his eyes against the tears that threaten to fall, and pours every last breath he has into the song.

When he's done, the large, dark hall is completely silent, no echo throwing a shadow of his voice back at him.

The woman smiles at him, just as kindly, and inclines her lashes in what Harry thinks is a confirmation, but doesn't dare take as such until her husband speaks.

"She accepts your song, and gives one of her days for your love," he says.

With a wave of his hand, Louis pops up next to him, no swelling on his throat, no snake bite on his leg.

"Louis!" Harry gasps, and reaches out to him, his hand passing right through the hand Louis reaches back.

Louis' mouth opens in a gasp, but no sound escapes him.

Harry turns back to the couple with wide eyes. He daren't complain, but _this_ is not quite alive.

"You will have to do something for me as well, boy," the man says. "Lead your love to the surface, trust that he follows you. You will not be able to hear him, and if you turn around to look at him, you will have lost him forever."

Harry nods dumbly. He can do that. If it gets him Louis back, he can do that.

"My wife trusts your voice, but I wish to see a deed. Do this, and I will give him back to you."

Harry wants to look at Louis, to smile at him, to reassure him somehow, but he doesn't know when they're starting this whole don't-look business, so he doesn't.

"I'll do what you ask," he says.

The man inclines his head in a gracious nod that feels more like benediction than agreement.

"Thank you," Harry says, feeling as though all that's left of his heart after his song spills out in those two words.

The woman steps forward and tugs one of the flowers loose from her hair, nestling it into Harry's curls. The next moment she's gone, as though someone has simply turned out the lights.

Harry inclines his head at the man in goodbye, because a sort-of bow seems somehow appropriate.

The man sweeps out an arm grandly, a path becoming clear where he points.

"Go, then. There will be no more mercy if you fail, foreign one," he says.

Harry nods.

"Thank you," he repeats, because getting to cheat death once seems already excessive.

He doesn't look to check, lest he accidentally look at Louis, but he feels as though the man vanishes back into the shadows, so he sets one foot in front of the other and begins to walk.

The flimsy shoes on his feet aren't the best to walk and occasionally climb over the rocky terrain, but Harry grits his teeth and sets his eyes firmly in front of him and keeps putting one foot in front of the other. The darkness around them seems endless, and a part of Harry wonders if this is a trick, if he's being toyed with and the couple are laughing at him for so eagerly doing whatever they ask, but it doesn't matter, does it? If there is a chance of having Louis back, however slim it is, he's going to take it. He measures his breath, and keeps his footsteps light, and walks.

The tension doesn't really fall off him, but he gets into a rhythm of walking, ignores the occasional strange sounds that echo off the far off walls, and walks.

The temptation to look back at Louis is strong, because just as promised, he can't hear him, can't know he's _actually_ following him, and Harry grits his teeth against it constantly. When it gets too strong he stops and covers his eyes with his hands, recounts the man's promise in his head, thinks of his Mum's face, and Gemma's, and Robin's, people he doesn't think he can ever see again if he's stuck here in this bleak, Louis-less world, until he can open his eyes again and keep on walking.

He's not sure how long he walks, but at some point, he starts talking to Louis, never for long, and not about anything in particular, just babbled nonsense about his life. The time he fell down into the coal bunker and screamed himself hoarse until Mum found him. The time he fell out of the tree Gemma dared him to climb and almost broke his arm, scaring her worse than him. The first time Robin took him to Manchester just the two of them for a "boys' day". His plan to audition for X-Factor, how much he loves singing, and music, and who his favourite bands and artists are. The Lord of the Rings posters on his wall, and how he admires Gandalf most of all, because he knows so much and can do so little, but never really gives up hope. And then, just in case Louis hasn't ever read or seen The Lord of The Rings, he recounts it, from start to finish, pointing out all the differences between the books and the movies that he remembers. (He's got a good memory.)

In case Louis has seen them, he hopes he'll forgive him for that.

It's a lot, and it makes walking more exhausting, dries out his mouth, but it keeps his eyes focused forward, and it keeps him distracted, and that's what's important, especially once the path starts going uphill. Uphill can only be a good sign when you're in the land of the dead, right?

Harry runs out of Lord of the Rings trivia before they reach the top, but he pushes on regardless, quiet now safe for his ever heavier breathing.

And then, almost suddenly, he's blinded by light. He feels like he should have somehow seen this coming, approached it slowly, but from one step to the next, he can suddenly see the end of the cave like tunnel they - it has to be they - have been walking. It seems too abrupt to be natural, but then again, the entrance to the land of the dead doesn't have to follow natural rules, does it.

"Fuck, Louis, we're gonna make it," he says, heart dropping at the lack of response even though he knew there wouldn't be one.

He covers his face, reminds himself of his family, and keeps walking, blinking against the sudden light.

He hesitates only once more, right at the edge of the cave, worry an ice cold claw ticked into his heart - what if Louis _hasn't_ been able to follow him and Harry leaves and can't return - but screws his eyes shut again.

He doesn't cover his face this time, but reaches one hand behind himself, though he knows that even if Louis is there and wants to reassure him, his hand would pass right through him. He feels nothing.

Harry thinks of his mum, and Gemma, and Robin. How they'd miss him if he didn't try. He thinks of the kindness in the couple's face, instead of the awe-inspiring other-ness, and reaches up to touch the flower tucked into his hair.

"Please, come back," he whispers once more, and walks forward into the light with his eyes screwed shut.

He can feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, smell the fresh air, sound comes back in the form of crickets and birds chirping as if in contest, wind rustling through grass and trees, and then he stumbles, reaches out to catch himself and doesn't stop falling for far too long. The nothing. It must be. He must have done it correctly.

Someone slaps his cheek and he wrenches his eyes open with a gasp, coughs immediately, the inside of his mouth coated with the metallic taste of blood.

"Harry!" Gemma yells, grabbing his upper arms so hard he's sure it's going to leave bruises.

He nods through his coughing, leans against her, arms and legs weak and stomach swooping.

" _Mum!"_ she yells, even louder.

Harry hears her thumping steps up the stairs, and tries to suppress the next cough.

Gemma's white as a ghost when Mum kneels down next to them and Harry manages to get his eyes open.

"He just collapsed!" Gemma says, voice bordering on hysterical.

Mum presses a hand to Harry's forehead, and then to his cheek, peels his hand open where he's trying to hide the blood, and gasps.

"Go call Doctor Primrose, her number's on the fridge," Mum snaps. " _Now_ , Gemma."

Gemma scrambles up and thunders down the stairs and for a moment Harry worries she's going to fall, but he can hear her reach the landing downstairs.

"Sh, Harry. Calm, darling, you'll be alright," Mum says, carding a warm hand through his hair.

This is-- this is exactly what Harry remembers from when he was last at home. God, _home_. Did he-- did he really make it? And did-- god, did _Louis_ make it?

He coughs again, the breath pressed out of him with such force he feels like his lungs ache. Red splatters against his hand as he covers his mouth and Mum presses a kiss to his hair.

"What are you doing, darling, hm?" she asks, more to say something than because she thinks Harry had anything to do with his sudden violent onset of whatever-this-is, but Harry wonders if it _is_ something he did. If it's something he did, and something Louis did, that pulled them from their worlds and spat them out somewhere else.

"She'll be over in ten minutes," Gemma says quietly. Harry didn't even hear her come up the stairs. "She said to try and calm your breathing, H, so you don't have to cough."

Harry nods and lifts his head to smile up at her. He doesn't want to speak because his throat still feels tight and ticklish, like the smallest provocation would bring the coughing back. He doesn't even really want to breathe, but holding his breath makes him dizzy and isn't a very feasible long-term plan, so he tries to sit up to open up his airways and takes measured breaths, balling his hands into fists.

"D'you want to get back into bed?" Mum asks, and when Harry nods, she and Gemma grab one of his arms each and help him stand back into the bed he apparently managed to fall out of when he fainted. Mum fluffs his pillow and helps him lean against the headboard of it, sitting down at the edge of the bed with him, while Gemma hovers in the middle of room, looking like she feels terribly useless.

"Thanks," Harry croaks at her and gives her a smile.

She laughs a little wetly.

"Christ, H," she says fondly.

He grins and closes his eyes. He can't tell if this is the same exhaustion he left behind when he was yanked away so unceremoniously, or if it's some sort of souvenir of the travels he's been on, but he sort of just wants to close his eyes and rest for a few days.

"I'll wait for Dr. Primrose downstairs," Gemma says.

"Thank you, Gemma," Mum says, and Harry hears Gemma's soft footsteps retreat from his room.

"You feeling any better?" Mum asks.

Harry shrugs and then nods a little. He doesn't feel like he's about to keel over again, so that's probably better.

"You want something to drink? Or for me to open the window?" she asks.

Harry shakes his head at both, glad she's not making him talk or open his eyes. What he wants is to sleep, but he knows he'd be woken again when Dr. Primrose shows up anyway, so he clings to the rest of his consciousness and waits.

Mum stays with him, petting his hair and occasionally putting her cool hands on his forehead, calming him down until breathing becomes easier and he doesn't feel like he's about to cough up one or both of his lungs any longer. It's a nice feeling. One doesn't appreciate one's lungs as one should, when they're working.

Some time later he can hear the front door open and close and murmured voices, so he assumes Dr. Primrose has arrived. Only a few minutes later, he fights his eyes open as he hears her say hello to Mum.

"Hello, Anne. Hello, Harry," she says, doctor's bag in one hand, smile on her face, exactly the way Harry's always known her.

"Hello," Harry croaks back and winces. His throat feels like he's been breathing razor blades, not air.

"That doesn't sound so great," she says sympathetically, and takes Mum's place at his bedside.

"When did this start?" she asks.

"He was fine this morning, but he said he felt a bit peaky when he came home about half an hour ago," Mum answers for him.

Harry nods.

"And is it just the coughing, or...?"

"He passed out for a couple seconds. He wouldn't respond so I-- slapped him," Gemma says.

"And that woke him right away?" Dr. Primrose asks.

"Yeah, he woke up and coughed up a bit more blood. Then we called you," Gemma says.

Dr. Primrose nods along and fishes the stethoscope out of her bag.

"That's a bit worrying, but better than not waking up," she says, a twinkle in her eyes.

Harry smiles tiredly. He feels fine. But then he felt more or less fine just before it happened as well.

"I'm going to listen to your breathing for a moment, can you sit up more?" Dr. Primrose asks gently.

Harry nods and pushes himself further upright with hands on the mattress.

Dr. Primrose puts the ear-bud part in her ears and then pushes the other end up under Harry's sweatshirt. It's cold as always when it touches his chest.

"Try and take a deep breath for me," she says, and Harry tries for the deepest breath he can. It tickles in his throat, but he doesn't have to cough and Dr. Primrose smiles encouragingly at him when she asks him to do it again. She moves the bit on his chest around a time or two, asking him to breathe every time, and then asks him to lean forward a bit so she can get to his back. The breathing works fine now, the need to cough having receded dramatically, and Dr. Primrose nods to herself.

"I'm gonna have a look inside your throat to see what the damage is, so I'm going to need you to please hold your mouth as wide open as you can," she says, getting out one of those wooden things to push down on the tongue, and a tiny flashlight.

Gemma snorts a laugh from the door, and Harry shoots her a mock glare before he looks forward again and does as Dr. Primrose asked.

She hums and haws a bit and then winks at him with a smile.

"It looks like you've irritated your throat with your coughing. Maybe a mild inflammation. I'm going to prescribe you something to hopefully make you stop coughing and help your throat repair itself. You'll have to be able to breathe to sing, after all," she smiles.

Harry smiles back.

"And the fainting?" Gemma asks worriedly.

Dr. Primrose turns around to look at her and give her a smile as well.

"That was probably due to the coughing as well. Sometimes when there isn't enough oxygen in our blood the brain overreacts and shuts everything down for a second," she says and then turns back to Harry. "Since you woke when Gemma slapped you, it's probably just that. Still, keep an eye on how you're feeling, and if you stay dizzy, or even faint again, call me again immediately and we'll have another look. For now it's best you get a good night's sleep and take it easy tomorrow."

Harry nods.

"Thanks," he says, voice still scratchy.

Dr. Primrose pats him on the shoulder and then gets up from the bed. Mum walks downstairs with her.

"You gave me quite a fright, little brother," Gemma says, sitting down at the edge of Harry's bed and scooting back into it with him when he makes room for her.

"Sorry," Harry croaks.

"Just don't do it again," she says.

"Try my best," Harry grins and gives a little cough.

She immediately raises a stern eyebrow and mimes zipping her lips.

Harry laughs tonelessly, but snuggles down into the bed and lets his eyes slip shut.

"'m glad you're here," he mumbles, already drifting off to sleep.

Gemma shushes him, but scoots a little closer and brushes his fringe out of his face.

"'m glad you're here too," she says.

When Harry wakes, it's light out and Gemma's no longer next to him. His head feels as though it's stuffed with cotton wool balls, but his throat already feels a little better. He's not dizzy either, so he counts that as a win. There's a glass of water on his bedside table, right beside two tablets and his phone.

He takes the tablets first, swallows them with a small gulp of water each and then checks the time on his phone.

It's past nine.

He's slept for over twelve hours.

Taking a deep, if slightly shaky breath, he looks around the room, checking for any details that might stand out. He finds none. His posters are where they're supposed to be, his textbooks are still out on his desk where he hasn't bothered to put them away, his pair of shoes from the other day still by the door, even though Mum's asked him about five times to take them downstairs. With a smile on his face he sets his feet down on the floor and decides to go have a shower, and then see if anyone's home. It's a Sunday. Surely _someone_ is.

He feels a lot better once he's had his shower put on clean clothes, but with the return of some of his energy comes the wondering about Louis. If Harry is home, is Louis as well? Did he come back? Is he still in that vast, Underworld cave? Stuck forever because of a random snake bite? Will his family never know what happened to him? Harry knows his name, so he could google him, at least, but Louis Tomlinson isn't so rare a name that Harry's guaranteed to find him. And even if he does, what then? Is he going to write to Louis? Ask him how he is?

And what if Louis was right? What if being back home means they'll never see each other again? What if by contacting Louis he ruins that? Brings them back somewhere else.

Harry runs a hand down his face and grabs the pair of shoes, dropping it by the front door on his way to the kitchen.

"Morning, H," Gemma says, setting down two mugs of tea and pushing one over to him.

"For me?" Harry asks anyway.

Gemma rolls her eyes.

"No, for Father Christmas. Yes, for you. I heard the shower come on, figured you were up," she says.

"Thanks," Harry says and takes a cautious sip. She must've made it long enough ago that it already had time to go from tongue-searing-hot to pleasantly-warm.

"Feeling better today?" Gemma asks.

"Yeah, loads. Not dizzy or anything, and my throat doesn't hurt as much either," he says.

Gemma visibly relaxes a bit.

"That was really scary, with the coughing blood bit," she says.

Harry grins.

"Wasn't fun for me either," he says.

"Well, see that you don't do it again then," she says.

"No worries. Clothes and designer purses. I remember," he quips, earning himself a laugh.

"I'm gonna make eggs. D'you want anything?" he offers and gets up from the table.

"No, thanks, I had breakfast with Mum earlier," she says.

"Robin not home?" Harry asks.

"Robin?" Gemma asks back, and dread plummets into the pit of Harry's stomach like a stone. Is he _not_ home? Is this a world where everything is as he's used to but there's no Robin? No one to make Mum smile, to pretend he doesn't notice when Gemma sneaks back in late, to watch the football with Harry?

"Robin's on his business trip, he'll be back Tuesday, you know that," Gemma says.

"Right," Harry says, heart in his throat. Business trip. Robin exists, and Robin lives with them, but he's on a business trip. He did know that, actually.

"You sure you're alright?" Gemma asks.

"Yeah, it just slipped my mind. Calm yourself, sister," Harry says.

Gemma gives him a shove when he's close by and then goes back to her tea.

"Mum's out grocery shopping," Gemma adds - as though she just remembered, which she probably has - when Harry sits back down with a plate of eggs on toast.

Harry nods and digs into his food, and that's that done.

Mum fusses a bit when she comes home, but she can see that he genuinely is feeling better, so she doesn't hover too much. When Harry says he's just going to spend the day at home, resting, she doesn't protest, so Harry goes back upstairs and stares at his laptop, wondering if he should open up his browser and try and find Louis. He's got all sorts of technology at his disposal this time, after all, doesn't have to wait for a coincidence to bring them back together. But. _But_.

What if that is what ruins everything. He can't take Louis away from his family - his actual family this time. So far Harry has to assume that he really is home, that he really did make it and if there's even just a chance that he managed to give Louis the same, he can't risk taking that from him.

This whole thing is a bigger headache than his stupid throat possible-inflammation. That just means he doesn't really talk, but this? This he has no idea how to deal with.

It's exhausting.

So Harry spends the week leading up to Friday either working his summer shifts at Mandeville's or telling his friends he's busy rehearsing, even when he's really just lying around at home, trying to think his way out of this.

It's been a few days now, which isn't the longest they've ever been somewhere, but _is_ the longest they've ever been somewhere without running into each other. There is, of course, always a first for everything.

On Friday, Harry gets a respite from worrying about Louis, but mostly because all his brain space is taken up by worrying about his audition. They make a day of it, Robin, Mum, Gemma and even Matty tagging along. Gemma and Matty sleep some more on the drive up to Manchester, but Harry can't get his veins to stop buzzing. He feels absolutely hyped up, even though sleep would definitely be the better choice.

In the end, he makes it through.

He sings his song, manages not to think about anything at all and just let all the practice take over, staring right at into dark space between the lights and the judges panel where he knows the audience is seated. He doesn't manage to convince them all, but he does get two out of three yes-es and that's enough. Enough to get to bootcamp, at least, and enough for a small seed of "I'm going to show them 'ready'" to take root in his chest.

The next fortnight he spends working, practicing, and hanging out with his friends.

He's relatively certain that he made it home, that this is real, and he's not going to be dragged off again, but he's still not sure why it even happened in the first place, so every time he stumbles, everytime he catches strange movement in the corner of his eye, he flushes with adrenaline, heart pounding and expecting to go to that endless in between space.

It never happens, but Harry can't fully shake the fear.

If it is home, then it does seem to be as Louis said - once they're home, they don't find each other. It's been three weeks, after all, by the time Harry makes his way down to London for bootcamp. Three weeks, and no sign of Louis. If this were anything like the other worlds, they'd have found each other by now. It _has_ to be home.

The roommate they assign him at bootcamp is a nice bloke, Aiden Grimshaw. "Yes, like the radio presenter, no, no relation." They get along easily, and end up exploring a bit, finding out where they can get food, where they're supposed to go for the singing bits the next day and such.

It's only on the next day, after the first block of actual singing practices, that Harry hears a laugh he knows, and, when he whips his head around to find the source of it, sees a familiar even if not precisely known, head of brown hair, and a flash of blue, blue eyes.

 _Louis_.

"You okay, mate?" Niall, one of the other boys he's been talking to, asks where they're sitting together on the steps outside the building, jamming with a few other boys.

"What? Yeah," Harry says, still distracted. Louis's chatting to Aiden, of all people, and they seem to be having a good time, if the wide grins on their faces are any indication.

"You're a bit pale," Niall says, laying a steadying hand on Harry's arm.

"Yeah, I... I think I'll go to the loo real quick," Harry says.

"Want me to come with?" Niall offers.

Harry tears his eyes away from Louis - _Louis is here! What does this mean?!_ \- and smiles at Niall.

"No, really, I'm fine. I'll just go splash myself with water, get a drink, and I'll bounce right back," he waves him off.

"Okay, if you say so," Niall says.

Harry nods and gets up on shaky legs, noting the clammyness of his hands and the heat settled at the back of his neck. He breathes through it all and makes his way back inside, slipping into the men's. He does look a bit peaky, though that could be the neon light that washes him out.

"Get a grip," Harry quietly says to his reflection, and then runs the insides of his wrists under the cold water, occasionally dragging his cold hands over his neck and face. It does bring back some of the colour to his cheeks, but it doesn't calm the jittery shivers of his insides.

He resolves to just tell Aiden he's gone back up to his room, and dries off his hands. He'll grab a drink from the vending machine up on their floor and have a quick nap.

When he pushes the door open, he's almost smacks someone in the face with it.

"Oops, sorry," he says immediately. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine, no worries," Louis laughs, stepping around the open door. He smiles at Harry politely and makes to move past him, as if he's never seen him before.

Did... did none of that actually happen? Or at least not to this Louis?

"Oh, hey!" Louis says then, and Harry whirls around, staring at him with eyes that are probably too wide and hopeful.

"I heard you sing, before. You were really good. You're going to make it," Louis says.

Harry's heart plummets back from his throat to his stomach, but he smiles.

"Thanks, that's really nice of you," he says.

"No problem, Curly. Just don't forget who your very first fan was," Louis says with a wink.

Harry laughs.

"I think my Mum would fight you for that space."

"Mums don't count," Louis waves him off.

"Well, then, my sister's definitely not going to fight you," Harry grins.

"A lover, not a fighter?" Louis asks.

"Definitely a fighter, just not that bothered," Harry corrects, prompting a laugh from Louis.

"Ah, sisters," he says knowingly.

Harry grins.

"Indeed."

"Hey, I know that's a bit weird, but would you mind taking a photo together? If you make it big I'll sell it on ebay," Louis says.

"One for you and one for me? In case you've got this backwards and you're the one who makes it?" Harry suggests.

Louis laughs but shrugs.

"Sure. I won't, but sure," he says.

Louis holds his arm out first, stretching it up and away to catch them grinning at the lense with their arms around each other's shoulders.

"It'll do," he says when he flips the phone back around, and puts him arm back around Harry for a second photo.

Harry takes two, and keeps the one he likes better, before putting his phone back in his pocket.

Louis hesitates for a moment, before offering his hand.

"I'm Louis, by the way," he says, crushing all hope Harry had that he might know him after all.

"Harry," he says, taking the hand and giving it a quick shake.

"Well, see you around, Harry, you're probably going to win," Louis says, making Harry laugh and shake his head.

"Probably not," he says, because as much as he might dream about that, he doesn't really think-- it's not something he came here planning to do. He wants to get as far as he can, but win? Him? No way. He's heard plenty people around already who sing much better than him.

Louis gives him a thumbs up and then turns around to walk back outside. Watching Louis leave, even though this Louis doesn't know him, makes panic claw at Harry's heart for a moment, and Harry can't move from his spot, watches Louis until he's back outside, until he can't see him anymore.

He's still here. He found Louis, or Louis found him, and Louis doesn't know who he is. Louis left, and they're still here.

That's not Harry's Louis.

The urge to cry washes over him like a wave, making him swallow heavily and turn on his heel to make a beeline to the elevators. Scrubbing at his eyes with one hand, he texts Aiden to tell him he'll be napping in their room, just in case someone goes looking for him, and then makes a beeline for said room, skipping the vending machine. He's not even entirely sure what he's crying for - the confusion and exhaustion of that strange journey? The loss of Louis? The uncertainty over whether any of it really happened or he had the strangest, fastest two seconds of a dream while he was unconscious?

In the end, coupled with the bootcamp stress and excitement, it's just too much.

Eventually, Harry does drift off into an uneasy sleep, and only wakes up when Aiden comes to fetch him for dinner.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asks, worry written over his pretty face.

"Yeah, I've been ill recently, and so I just wanted to take it slow when I felt a bit peaky earlier," Harry says. Three weeks ago counts as "recently", right?

"Oh, okay. Sure. Just, Louis said he saw you in the loos and you were a bit flushed, and then you texted me you were going to have a nap, so I was a bit worried," Aiden says.

"It's fine. I'm alright. Thanks though," Harry says.

Aiden ruffles his hair.

"Gotta look out for each other, don't we?" he says.

Harry smiles.

"Yeah. So how about dinner?"

Aiden laughs and shakes his head.

"That's just what I came to get you for, actually."

Harry grins and slips on his shoes, lets Aiden talk about the rest of his afternoon, and follows him downstairs where the show has set up something like a large dining hall in one of the conference rooms. There's always a buffet, since there are too many of them to take over the hotel restaurant, and Aiden and Harry get in line still chatting. Aiden goes to sit with Louis, but Harry begs off, and sits with Niall instead.

It's not that he's avoiding Louis, as such, it's just that he doesn't want to be around Louis right now. Not around a Louis who doesn't know him yet. Give him a day or so, then maybe he'll make it.

A day or so is, of course, all he has, because the following day is the last day of bootcamp, and Harry spends most of it keeping Louis in his peripheral vision - no closer, but no further either. He's magnetic, and Harry's not the only one who noticed. He's sure he'll go through and Harry will be voting for him in the live shows, only then neither of them make it. Not Louis, not Harry, not even Niall, with his sweet smile, his guitar, and his Justin Bieber. Harry thought Niall for sure would get through.

And then, just when Harry's relatively sure he's had about all the emotional exhaustion he can take, they're being called back to the stage. Louis, Niall, him, and two other boys, Liam Payne, and Zayn Malik. Four of the girls are being called as well, and Niall huddles close to Harry.

"What do you think they want?" Niall asks.

"Maybe they'll give us another chance?" Liam suggests, ever hopeful.

Harry scoffs. He doesn't mean to, but he's just about done, and The X-Factor isn't exactly the show of second chances.

"They probably just want to tell us we should come back next year so they can get a good shot of us all looking dejected," he says.

Niall looks at him with wide eyes.

"You think?" he asks, clearly caring more about Harry's thoughts than Liam.

"No, that's mean," Liam says, giving Harry a stern look.

Harry rolls his eyes.

"That's televison," Harry says. "And this is a television programme."

Zayn and Louis both stay out of it, and Harry wants to beg Louis to say something. To be the Louis he knows. To take his hand and reassure him, or to even just remind him of what he said by the loos, about Harry going far. He seems calm, at least, like whatever's about to happen won't affect him much.

Harry walks onto the stage first when they're called, mouth set in a grim line, determined not to give them the emotional spectacle they're looking for. He's young, sure, but he's not an idiot. The X-Factor is a television programme far more than it's a singing competition. And young boys crying makes for good drama. If people didn't love drama, daily soaps would have stopped being a thing long ago, but Coronation Street is still going, so. Harry is not going to basically be an extra on Coronation Street.

Niall follows him, fingers curled into the back of Harry's cardigan, and after him come Louis, Liam, and Zayn.

Niall fidgets from the moment the judges start talking, while Harry balls his hands to fists and tries to stand still while Nicole Scherzinger talks about potential.

It's only when Simon tells them what's actually going to happen, that they get to move on to Judges Houses, if they're willing to do it as a group - ha! as if any of them are going to turn it down - that his knees buckle and he curls up like his strings were cut, pulling his beanie down over his eyes and taking two, three shuddery gasps before he's sure he won't cry. He can hear the others cheering, the girls on the other side of the stage, and the other boys, Niall's clapping him on the waist and trying to pull him up, so he goes. Finds strength somewhere and pushes up, catches Louis' eyes and wishes more than anything he could share this moment with his Louis.

Instead he smiles back, and throws his arm back around - Louis now, who has taken Niall's place at his side - to tell Simon they want to take the chance.

Aiden is waiting for them outside, arms and eyes open like he wants answers, but Harry can't really give him any right away, just barrels into his arms, and clings.

"We got through! They made us a group, but we got through!" Harry yells, probably too loudly, too close to Aiden's ear.

"Oh my god!" Aiden yells back, and then there's more hugging, more yelling, more bodies, until someone grabs Harry by the wrist and pulls him away.

It's Louis, dragging him around a corner, back into the men's room where Harry almost smacked him in the face with the door.

"Louis?" Harry asks, confused, and still hyped up from adrenaline. Louis just gives him a shove so he stumbles into the room, falls in after Harry and presses him against the wall to claim his mouth in a kiss.

Harry squeaks a noise he's not at all proud of, and pushes Louis off.

"What--?" he's trying to ask, but Louis moves in closer again, and shakes his head.

"I remember you, I know you, I was there, I'm sorry," he says, rushing it out as though he thinks Harry won't give him another chance.

"I saw you and I panicked, I'm so sorry, I just wanted to be home," Louis says, eyes wide. "I saw you and I thought it must be fake, another one of those other worlds--"

"But we're still here," Harry interrupts. "Why are we still here?"

"I don't know," Louis says. "Cause we're still together? We're still in this band?"

"Because it's real?" Harry suggests.

Louis shrugs helplessly.

"I don't know," he says.

Harry bites his lip and then grabs Louis by the arms and pulls him back into another kiss.

"You're here," he breathes when they break apart for air, not much space between them, but enough for Harry to let his eyes roam all over Louis's face. Louis is _here_. He's not stuck underground in another world, he's _here_.

"I am, yeah. I'm here. You brought me home," Louis says, giving Harry another kiss. "And you're here."

"I'm here," Harry says, nodding.

"And we're in a band," Louis adds.

Harry laughs a high pitched laugh that borders on shrill. He just... he can't even tell what his emotions are doing at the moment. Ecstatic joy, confusion, relief, exhaustion, fear, it's all in there.

"Yeah, we are. And we're gonna win, and we're gonna be the biggest band in the world," Harry says.

Louis laughs.

"You don't dream small, do you?" he asks.

"We've done the impossible before, why should this be any different?" Harry says.

Louis grins and shakes his head, stealing another kiss from Harry's lips.

"If you want the world, we'll take the world," he mumbles.

Harry laughs and moves in to kiss Louis again. The world can wait, the band can wait. Harry's been in a world that seems to be his home for three weeks now, and he gets to have Louis back, and be in a band on The X-Factor. If this is his life now, Harry's going to hold on to it with both hands for as long as he can.

The End


End file.
